𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 31. IN HIS FATHER'S WAKE

❝Not every father gets a chance to start his son off in his own footsteps.❞

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

The sea stretched endlessly around him, its inky waves reflecting the faint glimmer of starlight overhead.

The boat was small, barely large enough to accommodate his frame, yet it cut through the dark waters with purpose. Rhythmic splash of oars dipping into the water was the only sound in the vast expanse as wind thread through the boy’s tangled hair.

Or rather the young man’s.

Though many still called him a boy, he had left childhood behind long ago on the rugged cliffs of Scyros. The years had honed and shaped the restless battle-hungry fire that burned in his chest into something fierce and steady.

His arms, lean and corded with muscle, flexed with each stroke, his mind miles away even as the shores of Troy began to emerge from the shadowed horizon.

The first hint of dawn crept across the sky casting the faintest blush of pink against the endless dark. Greek ships—like scattered flecks of ash against the shoreline—bobbed in the gentle current, their tattered sails hanging limp in the early morning calm.

With a deep controlled breath, he let the oars slip from his fingers, the wooden shafts settling into their holders with a soft clunk causing the boat to drift lazily in the gentle sway of the tide.

His calloused hands reached for the worn leather bag at his feet, fingers brushing over familiar objects until they found what he sought: A parchment folded and creased from weeks of handling.

He stared at it, his chest rising and falling with each breath as memories flooded his mind. His mother’s voice echoed in his head—her stories of his father, the greatest of great, a man whose name was whispered with both reverence and dread across the known world.

He unfolds the paper slowly as if it were fragile enough to crumble under his touch. The familiar handwriting stared back at him bold and confidently. His father’s words, penned with the same assuredness that had carried him through countless battles.

As a child he’d clung to these letters, each one a lifeline to the a he barely knew. He remembers sitting at his mother’s feet, the scrolls unfurling like sacred texts as she read them aloud.

But the letters had grown sparse over time. After the death of Patroclus they nearly stopped altogether.

Patroclus...

A name he’d never spoken but one that felt etched into his bones. His father’s comrade...his lover.

The sorrow in his father’s words had been palpable in those final letters, the grief seeping through the ink like blood from an open wound. He could almost feel the weight of pain. His hand tightened around the parchment causing the edges to crumple beneath his fingers.

And then, just a year before his death, the last letter had arrived. It was different from the others. For it did not focus on war, but of love.

“In the time of my end, I want you to meet her.”

His father had spoken of someone new—someone who had filled the void left by Patroclus, someone who had reignited the fire in his heart. The letter had continued with uncharacteristic tenderness the boy had never read from Achilles before.

The words had haunted him ever since, though it was the portrait enclosed that had left a lasting impression.

“She is more than just the spark who sets my heart aflame; she will be your guide. A means to help you in your prophecy.”

He reached into the bag again to pull out a the piece of tucked carefully between his belongings. It was old but the lines were still as vivid as the day it had been drawn.

Lines and shading so precise; it was as if he could reach through the page, touch the subject as it stared back at him with eyes that seemed to burn through the paper. There was strength, a fierceness. And yet there was a softness too—a warmth that his father had captured with startling precision.

You.

He traced the outline of your face with a calloused thumb as his father’s words echoed in his mind like a mantra that pushed away the fear and uncertainty.

“My love...my heart...”

With a final glance at the portrait, he carefully folds and tuck it back into his bag alongside the letter. The Son of Deïdamia tightened his grip on the oars and began to row once more, the boat slicing through the water with renewed determination.

He would reach Troy.

He would fulfill his prophecy.

And when he found you, the woman who had claimed his father's heart, he would find the strength to face whatever Fate placed before him.

"...my ____."

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The morning sun sat high in the sky pouring over the camp like liquid fire.

The Greek camp was alive with movement—men tending to their wounds, sharpening blades, reinforcing the defenses after yet another skirmish at dawn. A small group of bold Trojans had attempted a bold but foolish attack.

It was a reminder that Troy, even weakened, was far from defenseless.

Inside the council tent, the tension was thick enough to choke on. You stood with Penelope at your right and Diomedes to your left while from across Menelaus sat at with brows furrowed deep in thought.

Maps and parchments lay scattered across the wooden table, flames of oil lamps flickering against the canvas walls. The discussion had gone back and forth for what felt like hours with no consensus having been reached.

“The Palladium must be taken,” you state firmly, leaning forward with hands pressed against the flat surface. “So long as it remains in Troy the city will never fall. We all know this.”

“I don’t disagree,” Diomedes countered, hazel eyes fixed on you unwavering. “But you and Penelope going together? It’s reckless.”

“Who better than us?” Penelope challenged with a tilt of her head. Her voice was calm but there was a steely edge beneath it. “Stealth is needed, not brute force. Who among us is better suited to infiltrate Troy than two who have spent years navigating the shadows?”

Diomedes exhaled sharply. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t go together. You’re both Ithacan Commanders. If something happens to you, your men will be leaderless.”

“And you think I’d let you go alone?” you shot back, raising a brow.

“I’m more experienced in this sort of mission,” he replied tightly. “And you’re too important to risk. If something happened—”

“Something always happens,” you interrupt. “War is never safe. We’ve all risked our lives countless times. I’m not sitting this out.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Menelaus raised a hand, signaling for silence. His dark eyes studied him before flicking to you. “Then what do you suggest?”

You straightened. “I go in with him and Penelope stays here. That way we won't lose both if the mission goes south.”

A long heavy pause stretched between you before Diomedes finally gave a slow nod. “…Fine.”

You and Penelope shared a look. And though she wasn't entirely pleased with the outcome, she knew it was best. She simply folded her arms, exhaling through her nose. “Be careful,” she muttered.

You smirked. “Aren’t I always?”

The conversation should have continued—details, plans, strategies—but before another word could be spoken, the sound of commotion erupted from outside. Voices of soldiers rose in volume, urgent and disjointed, growing louder by the second.

You and the others exchanged glances before instinct took over. Your hands moved to your weapons, gripping the hilts as you strode toward the entrance. You were the last to exit, turning swiftly to retrieve your axe from where it leaned against the wooden frame of the tent.

As soon as you stepped outside, the sunlight hit your eyes, momentarily blinding you. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the sudden brightness, that’s when you saw it—

Men gathering. Whispering. Watching.

There was no attack, no enemy breaching the camp’s borders. And yet the soldiers still stood apprehensive, their eyes trained toward the sea. Their murmurs filled the air like the buzzing of insects.

Your heart thumped hard against your ribs as Polites came rushing toward you with something between shock and bewilderment.

He struggled to form the words, his mouth opening and closing before he managed to stammer, “Ithacan troops...s-spotted someone. Coming from the sea.” He swallowed thickly, eyes darting back toward the waves. “He’s alone.”

Alone?

Your brows furrowed. A lone figure approaching the Greek controlled shores was...unusual.

“Polites breathe,” you ordered “What’s happening?”

Polites opened his mouth again, but the words stuck, his breath hitching as if lodged in his throat. You shook your head, raising a hand to his shoulder and giving him a firm shake. “Spit it out! What's w—”

“____.”

You froze.

The air around you felt thinner as if the very earth beneath your feet had vanished in an instant.

That voice.
Why does that voice...
Why does it sound like—

Your limbs felt too light, almost weightless, as you slowly turned toward the source.

Soldiers parted like waves before a ship as a figure walked through the crowd with measured strides. The sun was at his back, casting his form in a halo of gold, the light bending around him like a favor of the Gods themselves.

And when you saw him, truly saw him—

Your stomach dropped.

The world tilted.

A small instinctive step back made the sand shift beneath your heels. At your side, both Penelope and Diomedes exhaled sharply, as if they too had forgotten to breathe.

Menelaus was the first to mutter aloud with disbelief. “…What in Hades’ name…”

But you didn't hear him. Because all you could do was stare.

His green eyes shone under the morning sun with an unmistakable mischievous glint.
His golden curls, longer than you recall, shone brilliantly as it fell in the same wild way down strong broad shoulders.

And that smile—

That arrogant, infuriating, breath-stealing smile that had once made you flushed with irritation and want in equal measure.

The axe slipped from your grip and fell to the ground with a dull thud beside you. Polites barely avoided losing a few toes, yelping as he stumbled back.

The figure—the man before you—smiled wider at your reaction; his voice smooth and unshaken as he took another step forward.

“____,” he said again, his voice laced with something you couldn’t name. “Second-in-Command of Ithaca’s troops. It’s an honor to be in your presence.”

His words barely registered. Your body was frozen, locked in place as your mind struggled to catch up with what you were seeing.

He looked just like—

Your lips parted but no sound came. Your lungs burned, your heart raced, and for a moment you wondered if you were standing in a dream, some cruel trick of the Gods.

Because there, standing before you in the flesh, was—

“…Achilles?”

The man before you blinked. His green eyes flickering before a sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He shifted his weight slightly, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that was so eerily familiar it made your stomach twist.

“My name is Neoptolemus actually,” he corrects gently.

Without hesitation the young man gave a formal precise bow; his posture rigid with discipline and respect, yet carrying an ease that made it seem natural—as if he had practiced it countless times before.

“I am Neoptolemus,” he introduced steadily despite the lingering hints of amusement in his expression. “Son of Deïdamia, Daughter of King Lycomedes of Scyros…” He straightened as he gave you a knowing look. “...And of Achilles, Son of Peleus of Phthia.”

Your breath hitched.

Achilles had a son?

The words barely settled in your mind before you heard a loud grunt and the sound of metal scraping against metal.

Agamemnon elbowed his way through the gathered crowd. The soldiers parted instinctively, some stepping aside until he finally reached the clearing with an exaggerated shove and mutter of curses under his breath.

His bronze-plated armor was still scuffed, dust and dried blood smudged across his bracers and breastplate. But none of that mattered as he happened upon seeing Neoptolemus’ face.

For a long moment there was nothing but stunned silence.

Then, in a voice loud enough to carry across the entire camp, Agamemnon audibly gasped and blurted out: “Are you shitting me? Motherfucker just multiplying?!”

A few men snorted and someone choked on their own spit trying to hold back laughter, but most of the camp was still too frozen in sheer disbelief.

Neoptolemus’ smile thinned slightly before he let out a slow measured exhale. He turned his head just enough to side-eye Agamemnon, his expression unreadable but his posture still polite.

With a slight tilt of his head, he offered the Mycenaean King a curt nod before calmly repeating his introduction, this time for Agamemnon’s benefit.

At this point the Commander of Greeks was already making his way over to where you, Penelope, Diomedes, and Menelaus were standing at the entrance of the council tent.

Up close, his expression shifted from disbelief into curiosity; releasing a low whistle as he looked Neoptolemus up and down. “Well shit,” Agamemnon muttered, folding his arms across his chest. “How old are you kid?”

Neoptolemus, ever composed, responded without hesitation. “I recently turned eighteen last month.”

Agamemnon let out a bark of laughter, jabbing an elbow into Menelaus’ side, which the Spartan King gritted his teeth through.

“You hear that brother?” Agamemnon grinned. “Barely a man and already walks into our camp like he owns the place. Looks isn't the only thing he inherited aye?”

Menelaus, looking entirely unamused, deadpanned, “Don’t you have a battle to oversee?”

Agamemnon waved a dismissive hand. “Already over. We won...as usual.” He paused, giving Neoptolemus another once-over before muttering, “One thing about Achilles huh...he’s got some strong genes.”

Menelaus exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Seems that way.”

Though he couldn’t argue with it—there was a faint flicker in the younger Son of Atreus’ face as his eyes observed the boy. If there was any part of him unnerved by the resemblance he didn’t show it.

Penelope finally snapped out of her initial stupor with a shake of her head before stepping forward. “Ithaca’s Queen, Penelope.” She gave a polite incline of her head. “It is an honor to meet you Neoptolemus of Scyros.”

Neoptolemus brightened instantly as a boyish grin crossed his face. “I know who you are my Lady. My father spoke very highly of you in his letters.”

Penelope’s lips parted slightly at that, brows raising just a fraction. “He did?”

But Neoptolemus’ gaze had already shifted back to you. His expression softened entirely. His voice, quieter, warmer as he added “...Both of you.”

You couldn’t hold his stare any longer.

There was something about him—about the way he looked at you, the way he carried himself, the way his smile lingered just a little too long—that made your chest feel tight.

You could still hear his laughter in your ears...

Still remember the heat of his touch...

The way his arms held you together when you were falling apart....

Your hands clenched at your sides.

Without word, you bent down to retrieve your axe from the ground. And then, without acknowledging anyone, you turned on your heel and started walking away.

Back toward the Myrmidon section of the camp.
Back toward Achilles’ tent.
Back toward anything but this.

The silence that followed was almost suffocating.

Neoptolemus shifted uncomfortably, the edges of his confidence wavering for the first time since stepping into the Greek camp. He glanced at Penelope, Diomedes, and Menelaus, his brow furrowing slightly before he hesitantly asked:

“....Did I...say something wrong?” His voice held an almost puppy-like uncertainty—unsure if he had somehow ruined his first impression. “If I offended her I—”

Penelope grimaced as she exchanged a look with Diomedes who merely exhaled through his nose and shook his head.

“You’re fine,” Penelope assured him, her voice slightly awkward. “Trust me, if she didn’t like you...you’d know.”

That didn’t seem to fully reassure him, but Neoptolemus nodded slowly, still watching where you had disappeared.

Penelope sighed before turning to the others. “Excuse me,” she muttered, then took off after you, leaving Neoptolemus standing there—more lost than he had been when he first arrived.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS  ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The council tent was thick with the scent of burning oil lamps and wine, the air carrying the low murmur of men deep in discussion. The day was nearly done—golden light of sunset seeping through the seams of the tent.

Seated at the head of the room sat Agamemnon who was already well into his wine, reclining in his chair with his chin propped on one hand; the very picture of boredom.

His golden breastplate had been exchanged for a fine embroidered tunic, though the sight of him in clean clothes did little to soften his arrogance. He took another lazy sip as Diomedes continued his report on the day's affairs.

“—and so,” Diomedes concluded, “we commend our King for leading his men in the defense against this morning’s Trojan skirmish.”

Agamemnon let out a noncommittal grunt, swirling his drink before taking another sip. But before any further discussion could take place—

The tent flap suddenly lifted and a hush fell over the room. All eyes turned toward the entrance.

You and Penelope stepped inside.

The change in the air was immediate.

A hushed murmured through the space, though it quickly died down as the Commanders and Kings took in your expressionless face—the mask of quiet control that betrayed nothing.

Beside you, Penelope’s hand never left your arm, her fingers firmly gripping your arm as if to anchor you in place.

Neoptolemus visibly perked up in his seat.

The young warrior had remained silent for most of the earlier proceedings, yet now he was undeniably attentive, his green eyes locked onto you as you stepped further inside.

There was a subtle, almost eager energy about him, though he masked it well—shoulders squared, his expression carefully neutral.

You paid him no mind.

Instead, as you moved through the tent, your gaze found Diomedes. The seasoned warrior met your stare, his scarred features remaining unreadable. After a moment he gives you a faint nod.

With nothing said, you and Penelope take your seats.

Diomedes turned back to the matter at hand. “Now—onto business.” He shifted his gaze to Neoptolemus who immediately rose to his feet at the unspoken command.

“This war is ending,” Diomedes began addressing the room, “and for it to happen we must ensure Troy falls.” He folded his arms. “We cannot do that as long as the Palladium remains within its walls.”

A quiet murmur of agreement rippled across those gathered.

It was Menelaus who leaned forward next, fixing Neoptolemus with an expectant look. “Your father spoke of a prophecy surrounding your arrival,” he said. “Tell us everything.”

Neoptolemus didn’t hesitate.

“I learned of it from Achilles himself,” he confirmed. “Specifically after the death of Patroclus.”

At the mention of Patroclus you exhaled slowly. No one noticed.

Neoptolemus continued. “Troy will only fall with the aid of Neoptolemus of Scyros and the Bow of Hercules. He had written to my mother of it and she told me when I came of age. I spent my years in Scyros training with the best warriors on the island—I have fought in battles across the Aegean, gaining experience against pirates and rogue warriors.”

His words were well-rehearsed, practiced—but there was truth in them. The earnestness in his voice was unmistakable.

And yet, despite the passion in his speech, his eyes drifted to you, as if searching for approval, for a hint of pride.

“My father’s last letter spoke of his time running out,” he admitted, voice laced with something heavy and regretful. “He told me my time to arrive in Troy would come soon after.”

A beat of quiet.

Diomedes gave a slow approving nod. “You seem to be capable enough,” he said. Menelaus hummed. “And you have your father’s strength.”

Neoptolemus straightened. “Whatever plans are made,” he declared, resolve in his expression, “I want a part in them.” His voice was firm.

That caused a pause.

Diomedes and Menelaus exchanged a look, considering the weight of the young warrior’s request. But before either of them could answer a soft sigh broke the silence.

All attention turned as you slowly rose to your feet.

For a moment you didn’t speak. Instead your gaze drifted across the room, across every face present; the Kings, the Commanders, the weary Generals.

“....So much has been taken in this war.”

The words hung heavy in the space.

You let your fingers drift over the worn handle of your axe before clenching your fist. “We have fought. We have bled. And still, we are here.”

A flicker of something sharp passed through your gaze.

“How many years have passed since we left home?” you asked lowly.

No one answered.

“They grow old while we remain here,” you murmured. “Waiting...fighting....dying.”

A slow inhale. A steadying of your shoulders.

“It is time to finish this.”

And then you looked at him...

Neoptolemus.

The one who bore his father’s face. The one who, in another life, might have been nothing more than a passing name in a distant letter.

A soft breath left you as you gathered yourself, forcing every last emotion down to where it couldn’t touch you.

And then, finally—

“…Are you ready?”

Neoptolemus stiffened, his green eyes going wide for a fraction of a second before he quickly masked it with a determined nod.

"To fulfill your destiny..." Your voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. "To destroy Troy once and for all."

The answer came immediately.

“Yes.”

His voice was calm, but the enthusiasm in his eyes was almost childlike, barely concealed beneath the guise of a warrior. He caught himself quickly, clearing his throat in an attempt to look more composed.

You tilted your head slightly at his reaction. The faintest hint of a smirk curled at the edge of your lips.

“Good.” You took a step closer, your tone lightening just slightly. “Because I hope you make for a believable servant girl.”

The moment the words left your mouth Neoptolemus’ entire face fell.

The tent was dead silent for half a second before—

Agamemnon barked out a laugh, nearly choking on his wine.