Author's Notes:
Well, here it is...the long awaited Chapter Three of "The Lion." Hope it's good enough for all you wonderful people who have waited for it with such patience. Let me know what you think.
The shriek of sword on sword rang out in the hot summer air, mingling with the grunting of men and the occasional caw from a crow. Other then those few sounds, there was silence, which was a rare occurrence in the Myrmidon camp. All eyes were focused upon two men who were fighting in the sand, sweat coating their lithe bodies. One was lightly built, with tousled dark hair and swarthy skin. He seemed slightly nervous about what he was doing, for it was clear that his attacks were not as strong as they could be. The other man was tall, and powerfully built, with golden hair falling to his shoulders and bronze skin. The former was Eudorus, second in command of the Myrmidons. The latter was Achilles, the Lion – the leader of the renowned Myrmidons.
Stepping forward, feinting to the left, and then dropping to one knee, Achilles swung his shield around suddenly, knocking Eudorus' blade to the side. Swiftly straightening, he swung the blade upwards, stopping centimeters from Eudorus' throat. For a moment, Achilles was still, studying Eudorus. Then, lowering the blade, he inhaled deeply, running the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat that had gathered there. He studied the other man for a moment, clearly frustrated with him, and himself. For a moment, he remained motionless. Then, with a quick, sudden movement, he drove his sword into the earth and released it, the pommel quivering ever so slightly.
"If Eudorus hadn't been holding back, who would have been the victor?"
There was silence, and all the men remained silent, glancing uneasily from one to another. Striding forward, Achilles scowled at them all, his blue eyes searching their faces. "Well?" He demanded, "Who? Tell me. Who?" More silence, and then Achilles whirled around, beginning to stalk away from them. However, he paused as one man's voice rose up into the air, "Eudorus, sir." Without turning around, Achilles barked out, "Exactly." He continued walking, calling back over his shoulder, "Stay near the camp. I'll be back at dusk."
Achilles could feel their eyes upon his back, but he refused to turn around. Keeping his eyes locked on the path ahead of him, he set his jaw, refusing to turn back, or slow his pace, despite the pain that was starting to creep up his entire leg. He didn't quite know where he was going – only that he needed to get away from them all. As the months had gone on, he had noticed only a bare minimum of improvement in regards to his fighting. The men were too frightened to beat him, so they would never step up to a sparring match. He needed a life-or-death situation to make him rise to the occasion. But a time of peace had fallen over the land, and there were few battles to fight, and even fewer wars to win.
He kicked a rock, wincing as the sudden contact shattered through his leg. Rage exploded within him – fury at his own incompetence...at his own weakness. He stared down at the ground, eyes sliding shut as he fought to regain his calm. He was Achilles...he was always in control. But this was something he couldn't stop...couldn't deal with. It was completely out of his control, spiraling away from him in an ever downward cycle.
He made his way through the small, tangled trees that surrounded the encampment, following a small path that maneuvered in and out of ditches, around boulders and through patches of shrubs and tangled bushes. He hated to be still, yet it hurt to move. Each step was now causing him to wince, but he forced himself to continue, jaw tight and teeth clenched. His body, usually loose and fluid, was tight as a bowstring, taut and worn. He felt tired if he stood for too long; he was in pain if he moved. It was as if his body wanted to just...give up. It was only through sheer will-power that he kept going, refusing to give up. Pushing a branch back from his face, he glanced up to see the great, vast ocean spreading out before him, almost blinding in the bright sunlight. He squinted into the horizon, but there was not one cloud to be seen. The insufferable heat, it seemed, would continue on for longer, challenging everyone to survive in spite of it.
Making his way over to a large rock, he clambered up onto it, and then sat down, tilting his face up to the sun. He let his eyes close, searching for the inner calm that he had once been able to find so easily. But now there was only turmoil. Everything within him was a storm, crashing and churning relentlessly till sometimes he could not even sleep at night. Sighing, he tried to focus on something other then this problems...something that would help him relax...to calm down.
And then he thought of her.
Of her smile, her bright eyes, her laugh, her gentle touch...he felt a clash of emotions suddenly sweep over him: a sense of peace, that always accompanied his thoughts of her; a sense of longing, wishing that he could be with her again; and a sense of fury that he was once again dwelling on the past instead of looking towards the future.
"Damn this," he snarled, pushing himself back to his feet and striding back the way he came. The bushes bit at his legs, tangling and seeming to try and hold him back. But he ignored them, and kept going. Each step caused him to grimace more and more, and by the time he got back to the camp, he was positively terrifying. The men, lounging about the camp, glanced up as he entered, and then immediately leapt to their feat, not wanting to stand at leisure while their Lord was in such a foul temper for whatever reason he had of his own.
"Get ready," he snarled out, not giving any of them a second glance. Eudorus cleared his throat, "For what, milord?" Achilles whirled around, eyes dark and furious, "We're going to Greece." "Now?" Eudorus was clearly skeptical, but as Achilles focused his furious gaze upon him, he shifted uneasily, "Yes milord...I'll get the men ready." He was greeted with only silence, and the tent-flap of Achilles' quarters.
In his tent, Achilles glanced around at the food that Eudorus had set out for him, and the way his sword had been cleaned and put away. Moving over to the blade, he wrapped his hand around the pommel, lifting it and testing its weight in his hand. It was uncomfortably heavy in his hand, and his hand seemed to shake with the effort of holding it erect.
The calluses on his hand had blistered uncomfortably during the fight, and they were red and raw. He stretched his hand out uncomfortably as he traced the lines of his arm, watching the muscles clenching and unclenching as he moved his arm up and down. "Damn this..." He murmured in annoyance, driving the sword into the ground angrily, and then whirled to stalk over to grab his maps and scrolls. Throwing them down onto the table, he sank down onto a chair next to the table, staring idly at the maps that he stretched out in front of him. His eyes traced the lines of Greece and its surrounding villages and towns.
He slowly began to unconsciously trace a route from the old Troy, trying to figure out where the Trojans might have gone. Then he snarled, slamming his fist down onto the table, upsetting a bottle of ink. As the inky black liquid began to pool over the maps and the table, seeping down onto his tunic and staining it a rich black. Muttering a thousand curses, he stood up and murmured under his breath, "Stop thinking about her."
It was getting ridiculous. He knew it was. He couldn't spend every waking hour thinking about her. It was pointless to think about someone who he would never see again. Even if she had survived the attack on Troy, and managed to get out of the city, chances were that she had gotten out by herself, or perhaps with one or two people. To survive alone in this land...it was nearly impossible for a woman. He sullenly stared at the wall while stripping off his tunic and tossing it to the side.
As he grabbed a different tunic, he yanked it over his head, and clasped a loose belt around his waist, striding back out of the tent and glancing around for Eudorus. The pale-eyed man soon approached Achilles, his eyes ready and expectant, "Yes milord?" Achilles glanced at Eudorus, "Are we ready?" "Not yet – some things still need to be prepared." The blonde man paused, stroking his jaw, he nodded, "Fifteen minutes. Then we leave."
Achilles made his way to the boat, running one hand over the worn, rough black wood. His eyes stared off into the distance, tracing the line of the blue horizon. The sound of the men preparing for the journey to Greece echoed in the back of his mind, mingling with the sounds of the sea and the gulls. He wasn't sure where they were going – all he knew is that he needed to go.