Ok so, since I kinda suck at formulating interesting plots I thought I would re-tell some of the Greek myths and legends, Bleach style! I've kept the setting as Greece and kept their names from Bleach to make it easier. This one is a take on the story of the legendary warrior Achilles and the exiled Prince, Patroclus. AU and fairly OOC, so if that's not your thing then I'm sorry .

Enjoy

Prologue – Start at the End

A chariot rushed past me, the horses pulling it straining at the bit to move faster, their hooves pounding the sun baked earth. The man at the reins pulled the two horse team around the sharp corner of the tall stone bricks on his left, which made up the smooth and unyielding wall surrounding Troy. The chariot spun out behind the horses, but not as much as the body tied to the back of it by its wrists. The large man's once brown hair had been matted black with dirt and blood, and his grey eyes were long since closed in death, his killer had given him that much. The splintered head of a spear was still nestled in his chest, his armour scratched and beaten. A loud crack broke through the air as the long whip came down on the horses' backs, urging them faster.

I watched on as the chariot passed the gates to the city, a small crowd gathered behind them to watch what had now become a daily routine around the city's walls. My gaze finally focused on the man driving the rushing cart, his lack of armour as obvious as the sun burning in the sky, a challenge to the prophecy hanging over him, or maybe just a resignation. His blue hair lay unwashed and lank over his neck, the subtle curls that had always waved through it flattened out by dirt.

I knew my body lay in his tent, bound tight in blankets to keep the heat and flies at bay. He hadn't buried me, so I could not move to the underworld, the domain of Hades where only the dead could walk. I simply had to watch on, tied to the land where I was killed, as the man in the chariot poured out his grief for me in the form of unbridled violence. If I still had any means of expression I would have frowned at what he had become, a mere shadow of himself; killing not for the war but for me. Of course I still enjoyed watching him fight, the swift movement of his feet and elegant arcs of his hands still enchanted me like they had when I first saw him fight many years ago. I wanted to call out to him, but his name just rushed through the shimmering entity I had become like a plume of smoke between fingers, and I had no physical being to appear in front of him. So I continued to watch after him as he drove the chariot back to his, our, camp. Later he would return to the continuing battle between the Greeks and the Trojans, killing mercilessly with those swift, mortally beautiful hands.

Surely enough he did return, hauling spears from the dead once he had used his own. Blood was spattered in uneven trails across his calves and abdomen, some of it had dried to rust brown and was flaking from the smoothness of his skin. He had no chariot now, choosing instead to walk the outskirts of Troy with no armour and only a spear for defence. Seeing the exposed skin of his back, tanned and shifting over well used and lean muscles, always made me cringe in fear for him. He was a willing target, although most were too scared of Greece's most powerful warrior to get close enough to drive a spear into his exposed flesh.

I had become accustomed to using the increased sight that I had gained in death to watch out for him, but I knew, even if I did see his death coming, that I could do nothing to stop it, and he would not want me to.

He walked closer to Troy's unshakeable and beautiful walls, built with the divine aid of Apollo, his steps slow and even. His feet were bare, the way he liked them to be; pink soles stained black with dirt and blood. Blue eyes, pools of the clearest tropical ocean, surveyed the battlefields below, the noise of which, to all of our ears, had faded to almost to silence after hearing it for so long. As I watched him I noticed a slight movement in one of the windows towering above the city of Troy. In the shadows of the sill a man with flowing, enviable cheekbones stood in the shadows, eyes trained on the vulnerable warrior below.

Then I saw the bow, already loaded with an arrow, held by thin, pale fingers. Another figure filled the window, skin gilded with the finest gold and hair dyed by the darkest night. Apollo. I knew he would not miss. A memory of emotion struck my soul, the vacancy left by a heart falling inside a chest, the desire to breathe deeply to fill the hole. I could only watch as the arrow loosed from the bow, guided by that golden hand, and slammed into its target. I moved closer as he fell, the arrow nestled between his shoulder blades; the sharp fulfilment of a prophecy. His knees struck the earth first. As he fell forwards I could see the relieved upturn to his lips, the shiver of his soul emerging from the body made the atmosphere tingle. I could finally speak to him, for just one moment.

"Grimmjow"

Hope you enjoyed this, Adieu till next time!