𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 30. THREADS OF BETRAYAL

❝Stronger than a lover's love is a lover's hate. Incurable in each the wounds they make❞

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

High above the chaos sat a lonely tower in the Trojan palace.

It stood shrouded in quiet, stark contrast to the distant echoes of war that rumbled through the city. And within the seclusion of its stone walls sat Oenone with her loom.

The freshwater nymph sat before the crafting tool, the rhythmic pull and weave of threads the only sound in the sun-dappled room. Her fingers moved with practiced ease even when her mind was far from the intricate patterns taking shape beneath her hands.

With every pass of the shuttle memories wove themselves between the threads: The gentle brush of Paris’ hand against hers when he had first gifted the loom to her, his whispered promises beneath the shade of Mount Ida where their love blossomed with the wildflowers....

Those promises meant nothing now.

Oenone paused causing the shuttle to slip from her grasp onto the wooden frame below. Her heart tightened in her chest as she stared at the half-finished weave, the threads blurring as tears welled in her eyes.

First loves....

That’s what they had been to each other. But even first love wasn’t enough to hold him.

Not when Helen appeared.

She could heal wounds...cure illnesses—a gift from Apollo himself. But this? There was no balm nor herb potent enough to soothe it. Not for a broken heart.

Oenone didn’t even know why she stayed.

Perhaps a part of her hoped, no clung to the idea that Paris would one day realize that everything he wanted in another had already existed in her....

Though that hope had begun to sour with every passing day.

Her hands trembled as she picked up the shuttle to resume weaving, the motions becoming erratic and uneven as the loom’s threads pulled too tight, some snapping beneath the pressure.

She didn’t care.

"He chose to wage a war for another," she whispered bitterly to herself, the words tasting like ash on her tongue. "Was what we had ever true?"

The creak of the loom echoed her growing frustration until suddenly—shouts erupted, harsh and panicked, down the narrow hall. Oenone’s heart leapt into her throat as the door to her chambers flung open with a bang.

Aeneas burst inside; his armor still smeared with dirt and blood, his desperate face streaked with sweat. His eyes darted around the room until they landed on her.

“Oenone!” he barks in ragged breath. “Paris has been injured—badly."

Before the words could fully sink in, two servants stumbled into the room dragging a figure between them.

Oenone’s breath hitched at the sight of him. Paris

His handsome face was slick with sweat causing his golden curls to matt against his forehead. His chest heaved with labored breaths, each one more ragged than the last. And his skin...his skin was an an unnatural pale that spread across his features with every blink.

"Bring him here!" Oenone ordered, her healer's instinct taking over as she pointed to her bed. The servants hauled him over, Paris' body twitching weakly as he tried—and failed—to stay on his feet.

"He was struck by an arrow," Aeneas explained hastily. The Demigod's eyes flicker toward the door once sure the Trojan Prince was settled. “I must return to the fight. Do what you can for him.”

Without another word Aeneas left, his metal boots clanging against the stone as he disappeared out the door with the servants trailing behind him. Now it was just Oenone alone with the man who held her heart.

She hurried to his side, her pulse racing as she brushed the damp hair from his forehead. His skin was burning hot to the touch and his body trembled beneath her fingers.

“Paris,” she strainingly whispered. “What happened?”

Paris’ eyes fluttered open dull and unfocused. His lips parted as he wheezed.

"The...the arrow," he barely managed to get the words out. His hand shook as he gestured weakly toward his lower body. She followed his hand and saw the broken shaft of the arrow still embedded deep in his flesh.

"It was...it was from the Bow of Heracles," he gasped, grimacing as a fresh wave of pain overtook him. "The poison...it's spreading."

Oenone’s heart clenched but she pushed the emotion down and forced herself into action.

She scrambled to her feet, moving frantically through her room to gather her herbs and balms. Her hands shook as she grabbed jars of salves, bundles of dried leaves, and vials of tinctures, her mind racing through every remedy she knew.

But even as she moved a nagging voice whispered in the back of her mind.

“Why come to me?” she found herself asking. "There are better healers in the palace, royal physicians—why me?”

Her back was to him but she heard the strained chuckle that followed. "Believe me..." he rasped, pausing to catch his breath, "...I wouldn’t have." His voice was weak but the words cut deep. "The prophecy said...it had to be...you."

Oenone froze. Herbs slipped from her still fingers, landing with a soft thud on the floor.

A...prophecy?

Not love...

Not regret...

Not because he wanted to be with her...

Not because he loved her...

But because of a prophecy.

The blow from his words knocked the breath from her lungs. She turned slowly, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she stared at him. But this time it wasn’t grief—it was rage.

Sensing the shift, Paris’ gaze flickered to her, his eyes clouded with pain and confusion. “Oenone...” he croaks. “Why...why did you stop?”

Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths as she stared at him for a long heavy moment, the silence between them growing thick and suffocating.

And then, quietly, she spoke.

“No.”

Paris' fever-glazed eyes widened. "What...?" he choked out.

“I said no!” she repeated louder this time.

Oenone drops the remaining herbs to the floor, her movements suddenly purposeful—but not towards him. She began to pack her belongings, shoving valuables into a small bag with a frantic energy.

Paris’ confusion morphed into panic as he watched her.

“Oenone—what are you doing?” he wheezed in desperation. He tries to prop himself up, but his body betrayed him with a weak twitch. The venom had already spread too far.

Oenone didn’t answer at first, her back to him as she continued to stuff clothes and trinkets into her bag.

“You came to me because some damn prophecy told you to?” she hissed with anger. “Not because you love me? Not because you remembered the woman who loved you before you were a Prince?!"

"Oenone...please," Paris gasps. "I need you t—"

“You need me?” she spats, rounding on him. “Where was that need when you abandoned me for a pretty face? When you threw away everything we had for a woman who brought war to your people? You treated me like I was nothing.”

Paris’ breath hitched, his eyes wide with fear as she stood at the door with her bag now slung over her shoulder.

“Oenone...baby please.” he whimpers, his voice barely audible.

But Oenone just laughed a bitter broken sound.

"You know what Paris?" she sneers as she turns to look at him one last time. "I hope your dick falls off before you take your final breath. That way when you reach the Underworld, you won’t even have that.”

Paris let out a choked sob as he reached out weakly toward her. “Oenone—”

“In fact,” Oenone cuts him off with a snarl as she roar out years worth of pent-up rage and heartbreak. “you can use it to go FUCK YOURSELF!”

With that, she slammed the door behind her, the sound echoing through the tower as Paris’ weak cries grow fainter with every step she took.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The Greek camp was alive with the sounds of victory.

Soldiers laughed and cheered hard-won triumph into the evening sky as the walls of Troy, now a distant silhouette, defenses crumbled after the fall of Paris.

The battle had ended, but the air was still thick with the remnants of adrenaline, blood, and something more insidious—arrogance.

At the heart of the camp Agamemnon sat sprawled in his makeshift throne with a goblet of wine dangling lazily from his fingers. His laughter echoed across the loud and boisterous gathering as he entertained the men with tales of the day’s events.

“And did you see his face?” Agamemnon bellowed, slapping his thigh with a hearty laugh. “Right when that arrow hit him I swear the fool squealed like a sheep at slaughter!” He mimicked Paris’ clutching himself with an exaggerated panicked and pained expression causing the men around to roar with laughter.

Even Menelaus sitting nearby couldn’t suppress a chuckle. He shook his head as if to ward off guilt. “That’s enough brother,” he muttered, though his smile betrayed no true disapproval. “He was still royalty after all. Perhaps a little respect for the dead?”

Agamemnon snorts with a dismissive wave. “Respect? For that little shit? He caused this entire war!” He slammed his goblet onto throne's armrest. “He stole your wife and insulted our people. And after all that, the fool had the audacity to mock Achilles—one of our greatest?" He spat into the dirt beside his chair. "Good riddance."

The laughter grew louder at his word from the drunken chorus. But then, Agamemnon’s gaze flicked over to the edge of the gathering where he spots you.

You were currently speaking to Diomedes as you both made your way back into the camp with any last remaining stragglers from the battle. Penelope was on the other side of you, seemingly content and barely paying attention to the conversation as long as she was beside you.

Diomedes' face was tight, lips set in a firm line as he crossed over his chest. Clearly he wasn’t agreeing with whatever you were saying. But then as you spoke again something shifted. His stern features softened ever so slightly, and after a long pause, he gave a reluctant yet begrudging nod.

Your own face lit up with a giddy smile, the satisfaction clear in your eyes. It was a rare sight to see Diomedes relent...and it was even rarer to see you revel in it so openly.

Agamemnon, never one to miss a moment to assert himself, took this chance to loudly call you out.

“There she goes! The slayer of Paris herself!” His booming voice echoed across the camp, drawing the attention of every soldier and general nearby. “Made sure he couldn’t have any fun after death huh?”

The circle of warriors eyes followed as you stepped into the ring of onlookers.

You didn’t flinch.

Instead you half-shrugged, the corner of your mouth tugging into a crooked smirk. The firelight caught on Heracles’ bow slung casually over your shoulder as your gaze locked on Agamemnon’s evenly.

"Didn't take much focus," you replied effortlessly over the laughter. "All I had to do was imagine it was you standing there."

For a heartbeat the camp went silent. Then another wave of laughter erupted at your jab—louder this time, some of the men even doubling over as they clapped each other on the back.

Agamemnon’s grin thinned as the vein in his temple twitched ever so slightly. “Ha ha very funny,” he muttered while forcing a laugh himself. His hand shifted to his lap, subtly crossing his legs as his gaze darted to the bow of Heracles slung over your shoulder.

Menelaus cleared his throat and tries to steer the topic away from his brother’s bruised ego. "Tell me," he said, his tone lighter, "how did you manage to get Heracles’ bow in the first place?"

Your smile curled slyly at its edges. "Took some work. Especially considering the bitterness of being left abandoned." Your eyes drift straight to Agamemnon as you spoke, the man lounging in his chair with false ease as he twirled a cup of wine in his hand.

He felt the weight of your pointed gaze and gave a careless shrug. "What? The fucker stank to high Olympus! You expected me to inhale that shit for the entire war?!"

A few of the men chuckled uneasily, glancing between you and their so-called leader. But before you could retort, a cold voice sliced through the air, cutting through the growing laughter like a blade.

"Funny," it rasped low, "Could’ve sworn I got that bite because of you."

The camp fell into stunned silence. Heads turned and the sea of soldiers instinctively parted like waves before a storm.

Philoctetes.

The Greek hero—once abandoned and forgotten—now commanded the attention of every man present.

His hair was a long wild mane of tangled curls, his beard fuller and streaked with grey from years of isolation. Muscles sculpted from years of surviving alone on Lemnos, his once-lean frame was now hardened.

His eyes, however, remained the same—sharp, piercing, and filled with a simmering rage.

Agamemnon’s face drained of color as he scrambled to his feet. Nervous smile plastered across his features, he open his arms in a grand gesture of welcome.

“Philoctetes!” he exclaimed, his voice too loud, too forced. “My old friend! I—I didn’t expect to see you here! By the Gods look at you—alive and well! Haha I mean of course you’re alive. You’re you!"

Philoctetes said nothing. He simply stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, his gaze cold and unwavering as it bored into Agamemnon.

The tension was suffocating, thick enough to choke on. That is...until you called his name.

“Philoctetes.”

His eyes flicked to you, and just like that, the hard edges softened. A warm smile replaced the scowl as he stepped forward, the firelight reflecting the respect in his eyes.

You met him halfway with your own bright and genuine smile.

"I can see why Heracles chose you as the bearer of his weapons.” your voice was filled with sincere admiration. “Your strength, your perseverance—it’s unmatched. The Greeks owe you a great debt." As you spoke, you carefully unslung the bow from your shoulder, holding it out to him with both hands. "And we thank you for your contribution to this war."

But Philoctetes shook his head, pushing the bow back toward you.

"I believe you will do more with this weapon than I ever could." His eyes were gentle as he held yours. "I’ve done my part. Now it needs to be passed to someone worthy, just as Heracles saw in me."

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. "Philoctetes...I can’t—"

"You can," he interrupts your protest, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I no longer thirst for war or battle. I plan to go home to Meliboea and find a wife...raise children. To spend the rest of my days in peace." He smiled wistfully. "Besides, you’ve used the last poisoned arrow. There’s no risk of it falling into the wrong hands. And I believe Heracles would have made the same decision."

Your cheeks heated at his praise as you cradled the bow to your chest. "Thank you," you whispered, your eyes sparkling as you looked at him.

The moment was quickly ruined by Diomedes, Penelope, and Menelaus, who couldn’t resist crowding around, their curiosity piqued by the legendary weapon now in your possession.

"Let me see that," Diomedes murmured, his fingers reaching out to brush over the etched bronze.

Penelope lets out a low whistle as you handed the bow to her. "Gods it’s lighter than it looks." She ran her hand along the smooth ashwood before passing it to Menelaus who examined it with wide-eyed reverence.

As they fawned over the bow, you turned back to Philoctetes, your playful grin returning. "Now I feel bad," you teased. "I have nothing to give you in return."

But Philoctetes waved you off with a chuckle. "You’ve done enough. You healed my wound and kept your promise."

Before you could respond, a familiar grating voice cut through the warmth of the moment.

"By the way," Agamemnon drawled, his tone smug and intrusive. "What was the promise you made hmm? Never did tell me."

Your lip curls as you turn your head.

Agamemnon’s greedy eyes glittered he hovered just a few feet away from you and Philoctetes, his presence an unwelcome shadow.

The King of Mycenae had somehow managed to shuffle out of his chair while everyone was distracted and made his way over to the group—all while his wine cup still in hand. His gaze was locked onto the bow of Heracles, silently fanboying over the craftsmanship with idle fascination.

Philoctetes' smile—so warm just moments before—turned stiff and brittle. The softness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a steely glare as he turned to face Agamemnon fully.

"Oh nothing much..." he murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous timbre. "Just this."

Then, with a suddenness that startled even you, Philoctetes closed the distance between them in two strides, reared his arm back, and clocked Agamemnon square in the jaw.

The crack of knuckles against bone was louder than any war horn.

Agamemnon’s wine cup flew from his hand, spinning through the air before shattering against the ground as he crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud.

The soldiers around the scene froze; mouths agape, eyes flickering between the knocked-out King laid sprawled at the feet of the furious warrior standing over him.

Philoctetes flexed his hand, shaking out the sting as he spat near Agamemnon’s unconscious form. “That’s for abandoning me on Lemnos you bastard.”

The most shocking thing, however, wasn't even the punch. It was the reaction (or lack thereof) from the other generals.

Not one Commander, King, or high-ranking officer made a move toward Philoctetes. Some even subtly nudged their troops to make sure no one dared interfere.

You stifled a laugh, enjoying the moment until you finally had enough.

“Menelaus!”

The Spartan King, who had been idly toying with Heracles' bow, looked up in mild confusion. You nod toward his unconscious brother. "Mind checking on your brother?"

Menelaus' smile fades as he release a sigh of reluctance. “Oh...right.”

Ambling over to Agamemnon, he nudges him with the toe of his sandal. “Wake up you idiot.” When there was no response Menelaus kicked him a little harder—this time in the ribs.

Still nothing.

Menelaus looks over at you with a shrug—"I tried..."—and makes his way back toward Diomedes and Penelope, resuming his inspection of the bow as if nothing had happened.

You snorted at the display before deciding to take pity on the man.

Striding over to Agamemnon, you knelt beside him, your fingers lightly tapping him on the cheek. “Wakey-wakey your majesty~” you sing-song as you mockingly called. "You still alive?"

When he didn’t stir, you gave him a sharp slap across the face.

That did the trick.

Agamemnon’s eyes snapped open. He shot up with a startled yelp as he scrambled backward, his eyes wide and frantic. "Wha...what just happened?!" he sputtered, looking around in bewilderment.

The last thing he remembered being Philoctetes’ fist flying toward his face.

A nasty purple knot was already forming on his jaw, the skin around it beginning to bruise and swell.

You sat back on your heels as you grinned at him wickedly. "Well," you start cheerfully, "you just got knocked the fuck out."

Two of Agamemnon’s men rushed over to help him to his feet. He staggered in a daze, wincing with every movement as one hand cradled his jaw.

Once he was upright, his face twisted in a scowl, his eyes bloodshot with fury. "That—" he snarled, his voice raspy, "was the promise you made with him? To punch me?!"

You stood up while dusting off your hands casually. "Pretty much yeah."

“That...that is treason!” he shouts in indignation. He looks around expecting the camp to rise in his defense...only to be met with blank stares and a few awkwardly avoiding eye contact.

His jaw dropped—not from the pain this time, but from pure disbelief. His eyes dart to his brother. "Menelaus!" he whines, voice almost childish in desperation like a younger sibling tattling to their mother.

Menelaus sighed, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his brother’s drama was physically exhausting. Handing the bow back to Penelope with a mutter of “Gods give me strength,” he trudges over.

"What is it now Agamemnon?" Menelaus asks flatly, his patience clearly worn thin.

Agamemnon gestured wildly at you and Philoctetes, his face flushed red—whether from embarrassment or rage, it was hard to tell. "Well?? Are you just going to let them get away with this?!" he hissed. "They’ve assaulted me! Do something!"

Menelaus raised a brow. "Do something? You mean like you did when Philoctetes bitten by that snake?" His tone was dry with an undercurrent of sarcasm that was sharp enough to cut through armor.

Agamemnon blinked. "That...wasn’t my fault."

Menelaus snorts. "Oh right. So it wasn’t your fault that you ignored the seer’s warning and trampled through Apollo’s sacred grove? And it surely wasn’t your fault when you pushed Philoctetes in front of you, making him take a bite that was meant for you?"

Silence.

"That’s irrelevant!" Agamemnon finally snapped, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child.

But Menelaus wasn’t finished. "And wasn’t it your idea to abandon him on Lemnos because you couldn’t handle the smell?"

Another beat of silence.

Agamemnon’s face darkened as he scowled despite the obvious pain it caused him. "Whose side are you even on?!" he spat with a glare.

Before Menelaus could answer you stepped in. "Alright alright. If you’re going to be upset, be upset with me. I knew it was wrong to promise Philoctetes a punch to your face. That’s why I made sure to speak to every King and general before it happened, convincing them to allow it in the name of winning this war."

You tilt your head as you gave him a sweet and innocent smile—the kind that only made his blood boil hotter. "Surely ending the war is more important than a little hit right?"

Agamemnon’s lips pressed into a thin line, his bruised jaw twitching. He knew he couldn’t argue with that logic. Not without looking like an even bigger fool.

He glares at you with burning resentment before finally waving you off with a flick of his hand. "Yeah yeah whatever," he growls. Turning his glare to Philoctetes, the Mycenae King jabs a finger. "And I want you gone by first light."

With that, Agamemnon stormed off, cradling his bruised jaw while muttering curses under his breath as he left behind a trail of his wounded pride.

You watched until he disappears into the shadows of the camp before looking to Philoctetes with a grin. “Well...that turned out okay?”