Wait... is it possible... I LIVE!!!! clings to muse

Believe it or not, one of my classes just studied the Iliad in great detail so I now have a TON of ideas on what to do now, so hopefully faster updates will occur. I sincerely apologize, though, people. Thanks for all the ideas and reviews!

So, the usual...

Disclaimer: Still don't own anything. I'm saving up my hard-earned pennies since I'm rapidly approaching my final year of college. Trust me kids, it comes faster than you think.

Here you all go!

There can be times in a man's life where he contemplates the intricate balance of the world: how nature flows, where the positions of power come from, and why life can be harmonic and dissonant at the same time.

Patroclus, currently face-down in the sand of his cousin's tent, was having one of these moments.

This was not how he pictured his entrance into Achilles' dwelling. He had conjured a romanticized image of the young waif-like girl huddled in a corner, him coaxing her out of her shell and letting him into her confidence, him listening sympathetically to her plight, and then becoming the hero by offering her some of his cousin's prized rations to chase away the nightmares of her experience.

Instead, he had a mouthful of Trojan shore, and one of the country's most jumpy maidens pinning him to the earth. He only prayed that no one outside the tent saw this display.

The girl ground him deeper into the sand, repeating her question. "Who are you?" When he did not respond, she shoved him harder.

"Patroclus!" he shouted to stop her, but it came out muffled.

Halting mid-shove, the girl's puzzlement was clear. "Parolhus?" she asked, repeating the sounds she had heard accurately. "What kind of name is that?"

All right, enough is enough. Patroclus suddenly threw her off his back, swung around, and reversed their positions, spitting out the grit.

"My name," he enunciated clearly, "is Patroclus. I am cousin to Achilles of Pthia, and you, my lady, are under my protection for the rest of your… stay here."

Petra almost leapt out of her skin when the young Greek suddenly turned and someone slipped out of her hold. She glared over her shoulder at him from her pinned state, narrowing her eyes. "Well, if you are who you claim to be, I doubt your cousin will appreciate the position we are currently in."

"Perhaps, but I was not the one that tackled a stranger to the ground, my lady." Again with the 'my lady!' She had to somehow convince him otherwise.

"And you expected me, a helpless woman, to let a stranger in here without defending myself?" she asked instead.

At that, Patroclus' hold faltered. "Oh." He had the decency to look sheepish and let her go. Petra slid a few feet away, sitting up and brushing sand off her clothes. "I had not thought of that," the young Greek admitted.

"I doubt you actually thought," she muttered, embarrassed now. A slight tint of pink touched her cheeks. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stiffen at her words, and she suddenly felt ashamed for her comment. After all, he was doing his job, probably.

Brushing the sand off of her clothes, Petra looked over at him.

"Patroclus, I apologize." He started at her words. "That comment was unnecessary."

He glanced over at her, shock plainly written on his face. Then he slowly smiled, stood and offered her a hand up. "You have yet to tell me your name," he said, "and I take no offense at your words."

"I'm glad to hear it." She purposefully did not give her name, knowing that his cousin should probably know it first.

But Achilles had yet to ask for it. Perhaps, if she gave her name and a few details, it would make her appear human to them and therefore harder for them to mistreat her… Her nagging doubts still spoke in her mind about the wisdom in trusting the Greeks, the now-enemies of her people.

Patroclus tilted his head at her, surprised by her refusal at giving her name to him. But he only shrugged. "Are you hungry?"

Nodding, Petra slowly gave him a tentative smile. "Starving."

A grin spread onto Patroclus' young features. "If you shall excuse me, then, I shall go remedy the problem immediately." He bowed at the waist, then hurried back outside.

She shook her head at him. He seemed to be about her age, but his excitement reminded her of a much younger boy.

So much like Paris… She shook the thought from her head.

Instead of dwelling on melancholy thoughts, she curled up on one of the fur rugs and waited patiently for Patroclus to return.

The sun was halfway through the sky right now, and Petra could hear the men talking and smell their campfire spits cooking all around her. Her stomach rumbled painfully but she ignored it.

Wistfully she imagined what would be happening at her home, inside the gates of Troy: lunch would be ending about now. Perhaps the family would retire to one of the sunlit balconies looking over the city, where maybe Paris and Hector would challenge each other to some game. Andromache would strum the lute while Briseis rocked Astyanax to sleep for his nap, and Priam would watch them all with a smile, for the moment forgetting their woes. Petra denied the inner voice suggesting that they would be mourning deeply for her.

Her dreaming, however, could only occupy her mind for a small time. When it ended, and Patroclus had not returned, she looked around in dismay.

What could she do? Despite Achilles and Patroclus' generous words, she dared not touch anything of the great warrior's. His actions belied his reputation, but at least part of it must be true. She had seen the smallest glimpse of his legendary temper in Agamemnon's tent, in Achilles' eyes.

Then her eyes fell on a blade on the table near the door.

Zeus's beard… She walked up to the weapon, her finger tentatively touching the flat of the sword. Smooth cold steel penetrated her senses.

Letting her hand slide under the hilt, she slowly picked it up, delighting in the lightness of the whole object. Petra tightened her grip into the proper hold and twirled it around.

Hector's training returned to her mind, and a coy smile covered her lips. She fell into her steps, pretending to deflect enemy swipes, twirling to face the back of the tent. A stubborn grunt escaped her lips when she swung above her head elaborately.

Spinning around again, she swung-

And immediately clashed blades with an amused Achilles.

Her eyes widened almost comically in shock, but then she stepped back quickly, her sword gliding free while still in her hands.

Achilles let her back away, still giving her that calculating look. "You fight well," he said finally, when her doe-like expression refused to disappear. "I was unaware that Trojans train their women."

"They don't," she blurted out before retreating again into herself.

"If all Trojan women fought like you, I would think the leaders of your city great fools." Achilles sheathed his sword and circled her. "You are almost an Amazon, my lady."

Petra only held her blade level with his, her eyes never leaving him. She moved with him, never giving a back target. "Most men believe I should spend my hours doing more worthwhile activities."

"Such as?" Achilles prompted.

"Oh, sewing, cooking, primping, gossiping—the usual." Her sarcasm amused him, and he agreed with her opinion.

"May Zeus strike down the man who keeps a weapon out of your hands," Achilles chuckled when she suddenly lunged forward. Her blade touched his throat, freezing Achilles in his steps.

"Mock them and you will be brought face-to-face with their power," she warned softly.

"What do you think you will accomplish by this?" Achilles demanded calmly. Petra shrugged with one shoulder but she never lowered her hand. "You cannot escape; my men will stop you."

Petra arched an eyebrow at his arrogance. "You arrogant Greeks. You think by spending an hour on a sandy beach you know this whole land and its people intimately." She let out a tsk-ing sound with her tongue, shaking her head scoldingly.

"I believe I know this place better than you-"

But she interrupted him. "I know every stone and shell that covers our sands, every hidden crevice and dune on this beach. There are secrets that you and your almighty army could not even consider, hiding and undetectable for hundreds of years, that are common knowledge even to the smallest child of our city. And you think you can find me, if I run?"

Despite his circumstances, Achilles felt a thrill up his spine. Here was the girl he confronted the day before! The fire was in her eyes and a smirk now curved onto her generous lips.

It took all of his control to not grab her and smother her with kisses.

Instead, he let his hands dangle at his sides non-threateningly while sighing deeply.

"Giving up?" she asked, almost looking disappointed. When the expression met Achilles' eyes, hope raised in him. Did she look forward to their sparring contests as much as he secretly did?

He only raised an eyebrow at her. "A Myrmidon never accepts defeat."

"So you plan to stare me down into surrender."

"Or…" Achilles abruptly echoed her earlier move, ducking back and under her blade, slipping behind her while letting a hand slip over her wrist, and sliding an arm around her slender waist while holding her sword to her own neck with the other hand.

A gasp escaped her lips at the sudden maneuver, accidentally cozying her into his embrace more. A wave of jasmine hit his nose.

Letting his mouth graze her right ear, he murmured, "Giving up?"

When he spoke, a loose lock of her hair caressed his lips. To his surprise, it was not the spun silk that most courtier women slaved to accomplish, but slightly coarser, as if its owner spent most of her days outdoors instead of in the comfort of her sitting room.

Her familiar words, spoken so low in her ear now, sent a shiver down her back, now nestled in his arms. He shifted slightly at that.

"Are you cold?"

Petra thanked the gods he could not see the embarrassed flush on her face now. She covered by rubbing her arms, thankful also that Achilles had lowered the sword. "I'm just hungry," she mumbled.

Achilles dropped her and walked over to a chest, pulling out a soft, lacy shawl. He returned behind her and draped it over her shoulders.

"You would think I would be used to the weather," she tried to joke.

Shrugging, Achilles glanced at the door-flap. "You usually do not spend the day on the ocean shore," he reminded her, absent as he thought.

"Don't patronize me!" she frowned at him.

"Patronize? Is stating the truth patronizing in Troy?" he retorted.

"It is when you assume that I am some delicate flower!" she snapped.

"Delicate?!" Snorting, Achilles shook his head. "If there were one word to describe you, my lady, it would not be delicate."

"Stop calling me that," she almost groaned with frustration.

He clenched his jaw. "What else may I call you?" he demanded.

"Well, you could ask," she reminded.

That stopped Achilles in his tracks. To his chagrin, he realized that she had a point—he had never asked her name or anything else about her. For all he knew, she could be married! All he had were assumptions.

But before he could ask, a voice from outside interrupted him. "Achilles! Achilles!"

Biting back a curse he stuck his head out of the tent.

Murmured words reached Petra's ears. Bits and pieces came coherently: "…Trojans," and "talk of peace…" However, the roaring of the sea only a few yards away muffled anything she could possibly hear.

She sat on the ground and hugged her knees to her chest. "Hector… I don't know how much longer I can be brave," she whispered to the wind.

11 Years Ago…

Hector's lungs and body burned painfully from exhaustion, but he kept running, his heart beating madly. Fire glowed in almost every room he passed as he hurried down the halls.

"MOTHER!" He shouted at the top of his lungs. "Mother! Petra!"

Clouds of ash and dark smoke billowed in front of him while the screams of battle heard outside. Thrace burned, and his family was scattered through the palace.

It had been his father's idea: visit the town where Hecuba had lived before marrying him, and continue the good will between the cities.

Then Thrace was attacked, in the middle of the night.

At seventeen, Hector knew that one day he could one day be the ruler facing this type of crisis, but at this moment his thoughts were only on his missing sister and mother.

Hector paused, leaning against a wall to gulp a few mouthfuls of breath, before he continued his run. Priam and ten year-old Paris were behind him, Priam fighting off any pursuers while Hector ran ahead, searching for Hecuba and young Petra.

"PETRA!" He shouted once more, straining his ears to hear anything.

Screams from people being slain at the hands of merciless Greeks outside reached his ears, but then he heard something in an adjacent chamber that chilled his blood.

"No! I will not let you take my daughter!"

Quietly sneaking to peek into the room, he saw his mother in her nightwear, her hair streaming down her back, facing a Greek with fire in her eyes and seven-year-old Petra peering from behind her skirts.

The soldier only let out a cold laugh that made Hector's heart stop. "You have little say in the matter, Trojan whore!"

Pulling out his sword, Hector waited for his chance as his mother tried to shove Petra away. "Petra, run…"

A blood-freezing scream shook Hector's whole soul as the Greek suddenly thrust his sword into Hecuba's stomach. Her mouth stayed open even after her cry of pain, as she sunk onto the floor.

"Mama!" Petra grabbed a sword on the floor and began blindly whacking at the soldier in a way that would get her killed.

"NO!" Hector ran into the room, tears streaming down his cheeks as he pulled Petra back by the back of her dress and made a fatal blow at the soldier's throat.

Petra fell to the ground as the soldier's eyes widened and his body, too, collapsed to the floor.

Silence, except for Petra's heart-broken sobs, filled the room.

Finally Hector looked over at the small form of his sister, her face buried in her arms as she cried for her mother. He crawled over to her and took her into his arms, kissing her hair.

"Shh, Pet, shh…" He helplessly stroke her back in a soothing motion.

"HECTOR! PETRA! HECUBA!" Priam's hoarse shout broke through Hector's grief.

"In here, Father!" he tried to yell past the lump in his throat.

Priam hurried in, slamming the heavy doors shut behind him and Paris, who collapsed on the ground panting his young lungs out. "I don't think they saw us," Priam said quickly, sheathing his sword, "but we've got to hurry, is your mother…" His voice trailed off when he saw Petra in Hector's arms, blood, tears and smoke smeared onto her little face. "Petra my love, what happened…?"

Sobbing quietly, the young girl pointed a shaky finger to the middle of the room. Priam's eyes followed to the body of his wife.

"Hecuba…" He shakily walked to her side, then knelt down.

Paris stood next to his older brother, holding his shirt tightly for comfort as his large brown eyes stared at his mother's corpse. Petra snuggled closer into Hector's embrace.

Kissing Petra's damp forehead, Hector silently made a promise.

Never… Never again, with Zeus as my witness… will I let you be this vulnerable, Pet. I don't care what Father's council says; I'll train you to best even our soldiers… but never again will I let you be this helpless. I swear it.

As if she could hear him, Petra laid her head on his broad shoulder and wept herself to sleep.

11 Years Later, Trojan Army Complex

Every time we say goodbye, I die a little,
Every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little

Hector stared at the empty training grounds in front of him, holding a sword in his hands. It twirled listlessly in his grasp as he lost himself in memories. Eleven years, countless bruises and scars, and buckets of sweat had passed since this blade left his ownership and been received into the tiny hands of a sad and lonely little girl. And now she was gone.

Choking away unmanly tears, he stood and walked along the corridors of the army's barracks with the sword in his hands. In his heart, he tried to keep hope that his sister had somehow survived and hid, but thanks to the Council's decisions it was more likely she had not.

Despite the training, despite his attempts at protecting his treasured Petra, the last remainder in his and his family's life of Hecuba, his sister's blood stained the sands somewhere from her lack of training.

Or… He dared not contemplate the other fate she might have.

His hands clenched on the handle of the weapon. Thanks to the Council, his sister would not be buried but be a slave to the Greeks or worse.

What a waste of life, he thought despairingly.

Why the Gods above me, who must be in the know.
Think so little of me, they allow you to go.

His main regret at the moment was his inability to get her corpse and at least give her a proper burial. The grief of the people would allow her to have the funeral usually bestowed upon a prince of Troy, with the games and the burning on a pyre.

But his sister now lay at the mercy of the Fates, doomed to walk upon the Earth restless and not reside in Hades with her ancestors and mother.

Even now the smell of burning carcasses and coals reached his nose.

Wait… With a frown, Hector hurried to the walls of Troy and looked over the sands and dunes towards the beach with a perplexed expression. Was he imaging out of wistful hope and his gloomy thoughts?

No. Actual piles of wood with Trojan bodies rose from the ground with incense being offered to the gods. Who would show compassion like this?

When you're near, there's such an air of spring about it,
I can hear a lark somewhere, begin to sing about it,
There's no love song finer,

but how strange the change from major to minor

"It looks like even godless snake-eaters can show mercy." Hector looked to his right with surprise at the sound of his father's aching voice. Old Priam joined his son and patted his arm tiredly. "I could smell them even from the palace. Your wife hopes that Petra is among them."

"And you, Father?" Hector asked quietly.

Priam's blue eyes glistened with tears. "I can only hope… But even more I pray that perhaps there was a chance she survived."

"Father!" Hector turned his back from the funerals. "Think of what you are hoping. If she did survive, she will be at the mercy of those heathens and you know they will find out that she is a princess of Troy. They will send you your daughter's head on a pike."

"Perhaps, but there is always hope." Holding onto the strong stone of his walls, Priam looked distantly over the horizon. "I feel in my bones that she is alive. No part of her has been sent to us yet."

Hector shook his head and sighed but his father continued.

"So for now let an old man wish." With a groan of aging, which Hector knew occurred overnight, Priam pushed away from the scene and turned to walk back to the palace with the trudge of the desperate, clinging to a simple concept: hope.

When you're near, there's such an air of spring about it,
I can hear a lark somewhere, begin to sing about it,
There's no love song finer.

The sun rose high in the sky as if to mock the Trojans of their losses the day previous. In parts of the city, life continued at its old pace: the market sold the fruit and fish for the day, the children ran underfoot, the wives scolded their husbands.

In the glittering palace Hector armed himself with a hip dagger and dressed in simple rags from one of the servants.

"This is crazy," Andromache worried, contradicting her words as she knelt at his feet lacing his sandals. "My love, you realize that this is a fool's errand and you shall not find her."

"I must try." He looked at Astyanax, who whimpered and fussed.

Andromache followed his gaze before rising and holding his hand. "He knows that she is gone. He thinks she will return, and complains while he waits."

"Perhaps I can bring back some type of hope." The crowned prince of Troy kissed his wife gently. "I shall return before the next day."

Following him to the door of their quarters, Andromache clasped her husband's hand for a moment. Hector paused and looked at her expectantly as she drew in a breath. "If she is alive… Try to bring her home."

"I shall." And with a whoosh of his cloak he disappeared into the palace, heading for the servants quarters and to the back…

To the passage that nobody ever took to the beach.

But how strange the change from major to minor,
Every time we say goodbye.

"Uh… My lady?"

Petra paused in her reorganizing of the stones in the sand in front of her, her gaze shifting to the front of the tent where Patroclus stood awkwardly.

"You may enter, Patroclus." She smiled a bit at his attempts at being gallant. "This is, after all, your cousin's tent."

"And you are my cousin's consort. I must not annoy or disturb you." The youthful Pthian bowed with a grin before showing her what he hid behind his back. A happy gasp escaped Petra's lips at the sight of a tray of food.

"May the gods favor you!" The praise made her new friend redden but look pleased as he walked in and lay the tray on a bearskin.

Tempting-looking cuts of fresh beef with fried fish, moist grapes and sweet-smelling dates, two cut pomegranates… Her mouth watered at the surprising feast that Patroclus had managed to provide in such a short time.

"How did you come upon this?" she asked while dipping her fingers in the bowl of water he held to her from Achilles' basin. She managed to fight a blush as she remembered the bathing incident from earlier. In her head the Trojan princess could still feel Achilles' eyes on her, making her insides burn pleasantly.

Patroclus, unaware of her train of thought, announced cheerfully, "My cousin always finds good provisions for his men. He says that if we cannot eat well then how shall we fight well against our enemies?"

That made Petra's nimble fingers pause over a cut of beef. "I'm your enemy, Patroclus," she stated quietly.

"No, you are not. My cousin has no quarrel with the Greeks."

"Then why fight this war?" she demanded with an arched brow. "Lord Achilles, if legend is correct, answers to no man. He fights fiercely and without mercy, and only to those that he deems worthy."

"I think," Patroclus took a bite out of fish thoughtfully, "he wishes to fight against Prince Hector. If he is as good a warrior as they say…"

"He is Troy's finest," Petra said numbly.

Gods, Hector, am I to eat and sleep in the same tent as your possible killer? It made her lose all appetite despite her ravenous hunger from earlier.

Munching, Patroclus looked at her and saw her pale face. Oh… I am such a fool! Scolding himself, he immediately tried to ease his new friend, the only one other than his cousin and perhaps Odysseus he now had on this shore despite her allegiance to the enemy. "But my cousin may not fight against the Greeks. There are many places near here that we can raid before we even consider Troy."

The girl still did not eat. He then entreated with an argument he knew would win:

"My cousin will beat me if he thinks I starved you."

That brought a small smile to her lips as she took some beef and reluctantly chewed. "I cannot allow that to happen."

Smiling at this restoration to harmony, Patroclus then noticed for the first time her garments. He recognized the clothe from his own storages of old clothes that Achilles made him pack. "Did my cousin give that to you?"

She followed his gaze then nodded. "I needed clothes, so Ach… Lord Achilles… gave this to me."

"Ah." Patroclus frowned a bit. "You deserve something nicer."

A small chuckle escaped her lips. "You and your cousin… You both think I am some great lady of Troy."

"Aren't you? You don't act like a servant." Patroclus handed her one of the pomegranates. "Most women from the courts do act a bit more coy and shy towards men, but only a noble lady could possibly have the courage to stand up to my cousin like you have."

"I thought all cowered in terror to your cousin," she teased with a grin.

"Oh, they do." Patroclus grinned in return. "But you must be used to dealing with lions to deal with Achilles."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said as she popped a pomegranate seed into her mouth.

A/N: Song is Everytime We Say Good-bye by Ella Fitzgerald. Want the story to continue? Review!