Oh baby. This is a LONG chapter but its action packed so I hope you enjoy it. I really struggled to write this, so let me know what you think! As always, I own nothing, and thanks for being here! Happy reading:)

Chapter 20

Patroclus was coated in it: the oozing, thick, dark blood of one hundred oxen that were now burning on pyres in a circle around the Myrmidon camp. The air was rank with the buttery scent of burning fat mixed with the bitter, metallic smell of blood. He held his arms out away from his body, feeling the sun bake the blood and gore into a slick mask over his limbs. He looked as if all of his skin had been peeled away, leaving only the layers of muscle and flesh to cover his bones. In the reflection of a wash basin, he could see that even his blonde hair was coated in the mess – his eyes sparkled like two blue gems in a sea of blood.

"Patroclus," Achilles' familiar voice barked from off to his left. Turning, he saw another crimson coated figure move through the crowd. The people around him gave him a wide berth, and Patroclus did not blame them.

While the red coating on his own skin was perhaps frightening, it was more disgusting and smelly than anything else. But on Achilles the thin sheen of blood across his body gave him the air of a walking nightmare. Like a beast from the darkest pits of Tartarus or one of Ares servants of war come to haunt the Myrmidon camp, his rippled and scarred flesh seemed to be weeping blood.

"Send the women to the river. They have seen enough of this and I believe they long to escape the smell," Achilles said, coming to stand beside Patroclus. "I will wash and then call a council of kings. They must all sacrifice their own Hecatombs if they wish to be spared Apollo's wrath." He crossed his arms in front of his chest, clearly unconcerned with the way the substance felt across his skin. I smell like you now Patroclus wanted to say aloud, but he held his tongue.

Achilles had found him earlier this morning as they were assembling to march, much to Patroclus' surprise.

"We do not go into battle today. Go and fetch wood for pyres from the forest and count one hundred oxen. Buy some from other kings if you must – we are sacrificing to Apollo today," he had commanded to Patroclus. This was almost more conversation in one phrase than Achilles and Patroclus had said to one another in almost a fortnight and Patroclus had sprung to his feet at once. It was great honor in being chosen to help sacrifice a hecatomb, and something had clearly changed Achilles opinion of his once best friend to choose Patroclus instead of a priest as his aid.

"A Hecatomb?" Patroclus had asked, dumbfounded.

"You saw the priest cursing Agamemnon's army. I could feel it in the air, we are bartering our lives I think, although I would like to speak with my mother to understand better."

There had been tension in Achilles shoulders as he spoke, and a crease between his summer blue eyes.

Patroclus had bowed and set off at once, gathering the men, marshalling some to cut and arrange pyres, others to sharpen knives, and the women to collect and burn incense. Messengers had been sent to each king of Greece and to Agamemnon himself to encourage them to sacrifice their own hecatombs, and to summon them to a kings' meeting this evening at the Myrmidon camp. The displays of power Achilles was throwing about unnerved him, but nor was he willing to sacrifice Achilles' newfound trust in him, and so Patroclus held his tongue.

Having Agamemnon come to the Myrmidon table would certainly insult him, as would Achilles commanding him to sacrifice a hecatomb. A hecatomb! Why not just ask him to throw all of his gold in the ocean? The expense was unimaginable. The Myrmidons were fortunate that they led Greece's raiding parties and could afford such an extravagance, but most kings could not, and those that could would not wish to be parted with their wealth. What had come over Achilles to suddenly make him pious? Patroclus had only seen him sacrifice a hecatomb once before, and that had been at the Myrmidon parting from Pythia – at Peleus' expense. Patroclus had always been of the opinion that Achilles' divine blood made him less cautious of the gods, but something had clearly unnerved him.

"Would you like me to send Briseis to your tent to help you wash?" Patroclus asked, returning his mind from recollection as he felt a bead of blood or sweat – he did not know which – drip down his neck.

"No, I will take a salt bath and speak with my mother, if she will come," Achilles said, his mouth turning into a wry smile. "Thank you for your help today Patroclus. Gods willing it will be worth it."

Achilles clapped Patroclus on the shoulder with a sticky palm and then moved away through the sand to the shore.

Patroclus too set off, telling the women he saw to head to the river and the men to collect the ashes, place them into urns, and then throw them out to sea along with the remains of the pyres. It was as he wove around the women's tent shouting an order to Actor, that he saw a flash of blue and pulled sharply into a stop.

Adara stood before him, her golden eyes wide with surprise and a glint of fear and disgust. In her hands was a bundle of bloody rags, and her arms, chest, and neck were coated in the substance she so despised. She said nothing, but in the narrow space between the tents prevented her from passing him, and so she waited while he observed her.

Her wild mane of honey colored curls had been pulled back in a loose braid and her skin was tanner than ever from days in the sun. But her appearance was drawn with skin that stretched tight across bones that poked out from her jawbone to her shoulders. Her mouth was set in a thin lipped grimace, and Patroclus had never seen her gaze so dull.

As he stared, he felt a dull ache form in the pit of his stomach. How much suffering had come to her because he had chosen to love her? Was her appearance now his fault? Some part of his brain knew that he had caused this, and yet what could he say? He could never take her back, no matter how he felt. His first duty was to Achilles, and they were just now returning to civil terms. Aphrodite he wanted to curse, but he said nothing.

"Excuse me," Adara murmured finally. Her voice was soft and hollow, as if she was speaking through a long tunnel before her words reached him, and Patroclus felt the ache spread to his chest.

"Adara," he stuttered, holding his hands out before him to prevent her from sliding past him, but she recoiled at the sight of his gore spattered limbs. Patroclus sharply pulled his hands into his chest and let out a long sigh.

{{{}}}

Adara stared as the red, beastlike figure that had replaced Patroclus. If it had not been for the sorrow in his face, she would have thought him a monster. But then, he was always too kind to be a demon. She wondered what he was going to say, and she could feel a gnawing at her stomach as she stared at him. Her brain felt dizzy and she wondered how much she had really moved on, or how much of this new distance between them was her mind forcing her to move on. After all, if Achilles was not at his peak performance, he threatened the entire Greek cause, and Adara had grown too fond of all the men to risk that. This is bigger than just my hear'ts desire.

Adara felt as if he stood on one side of a pane of glass and she on the other. She longed to hold him, despite his blood soaked appearance, but that part of her that could act or would act was buried by her new realizations, and she felt as if he was far away and looking at him was like looking at a memory. I must forget that I loved him. What was it that Apollo had said? You and Patroclus could have never been together.

"I am sorry," he whispered.

This was not what Adara had expected him to say, yet she understood what he meant. Sorry that I have caused you pain. Sorry that I loved you. Sorry that it could have never worked. Adara had grown too different without him and he had remembered his love for Achilles, and there was nothing to be done for it.

"Me too," she whispered, and then slid past him, careful not to touch his skin.

{{{}}}

Achilles sat at the head of the table, an untouched goblet of wine before him. Briseis sat to his left, and Patroclus to his right, and down from them a series of kings from Odysseus to Ajax the lesser. Phoenix was standing beside him, his dry, paper thin voice crackling in his ear telling some tale or another, but Achilles had no mind for the words. His eyes were fixed upon the empty seat at the far end of the table which had been reserved for Agamemnon – the only seat which remained empty.

He ground his teeth in impatience. They had been waiting since sundown, and still the King of Kings had not arrived. The familiar tinge of red colored his sight and he could feel every muscle in his body flex, yearning to snap the table in two. How had this man been chosen to lead them? He was not fit to lead dogs, and Achilles had half a mind to tell him when he arrived. Calm yourself he thought, trying to race his breathing. Agamemnon must hear your message.

His mother had come to him when he called, stepping forth from the water, her dark hair woven with strands of seaweed and pearls. She had confirmed what Adara had said and told more. The gods were taking sides in this war. Some casting lots for the Achaeans, some for the Trojans, but to suffer the wrath of Apollo was a great blow to Greek strength. What if he should make their medicine to fail? The idea was too ghastly.

Achilles was deep in thought still when he decided to have the table served, with or without Agamemnon. He knew what the King was playing at, shaming Achilles with such a late arrival, but he was a demigod and he had nothing to fear from such a weak man.

With a flick of his hand, women appeared from thin air it seemed with large platters bearing steaming meats, fresh vegetables, and decanters of wine. Voices could be heard all around as conversation started anew and his women offered the kings food. Far down at the end of the table Achilles caught sight of Adara, who was offering a wooden platter of lamb to Odysseus. She was smiling at him, her face relaxed, and the two were talking about something. The firelight gave her narrow face a cutting, catlike appearance, but she was only all the more beautiful for it.

Achilles again felt the unwelcome pool of warmth in his stomach as he gazed at her, but this only fueled his anger. Why had Apollo gone to her? And why had he, Achilles, held her in his tent? It was true, he had not see Adara or Patroclus so much as look at each other in a month, but it did not change the fact that he, Patroclus, was the one Adara wanted and not himself. If had not been Patroclus, Achilles would have killed the man already and sent the woman to Agamemnon in punishment, but this betrayal coming from his closest life companion had changed everything. For his whole life, Patroclus had been the only one who knew him, who saw the weaker parts of him.

Another thought crossed his mind as he watched Adara and Odysseus throw their heads back in laughter. Although still beautiful, it was clear that Adara was not in good health, and Patroclus had become silent around him. His anger had caused both of these things, Achilles knew, and a feeling that he usually pushed to his darkest parts threatened to overcome him. Guilt. But what could he do? Not all the love in his heart for Patroclus could ever convince him to bless Adara and Patroclus' relationship. She is mine. A wave of possessive fury passed through him.

It was as his mind was wandering these trails that he had never tread before that the table around him grew silent. Glancing up, he saw Agamemnon approaching, his massive girth glittering in a golden robe that bore jewels and intricate stitching. In the darkness, his hair was colder than the night, and his black eyes glittered like empty spaces under his brows. Around him, the other kings got to their feet hastily, but Achilles took his time, adjusting his position in his seat for some time while Agamemnon glared at him from the other end of the table. Undeserving swine Achilles longed to swear, but finally catching the alarmed expression on Odysseus' face, Achilles lifted himself halfway out of his chair before collapsing back down to his seat as if his legs had given out.

Even from the far end of the table Achilles could see the fury in Agamemnon's face which sent a rush of savage pleasure through his body. The silence was tangible, but Achilles could only hear his blood pounding through his ears.

"Bring the food," he heard a voice command, and the spell was broken. The women again appeared and whispers began fiercely around the table. It took Achilles a moment to register that it had been Patroclus who had summoned the food once more.

"Thank you," he said, nodding his head at Patroclus. He could feel a wry smirk spreading across his face. Achilles was the undisputed champion on the battlefield, but there was no denying that Patroclus had more political skills.

"Let us just try and finish this meal without taking anyone's head off," Patroclus joked, and Achilles felt his smile broaden. It was refreshing to talk with his friend like old times. He was not sure that he had forgiven Patroclus for his betrayal, but he felt more inclined to ignore the entire event. Seeing the fear in Adara's eyes and weight that she had lost made him want to put the event behind him. More importantly, he had grown tired of only Briseis' heated looks for company.

"To be able to bash his head in…" Achilles said longingly.

"Perhaps at the end of the war?" Patroclus suggested. They glanced at each other and then threw their heads back in laughter. The meal passed quickly and the conversations were kept to a minimum. When all of the food had finally been cleared away, Achilles finally got to his feet, pushing his chair back and lifting his goblet of wine.

"To the gods," he said, pouring a libation into the sand before taking a sip. All of the kings around the table followed his lead and poured their own libations before quiet fell once more. Achilles felt an electric current pass through him and felt his bloodlust rise for a brief moment before he spoke.

"Kings of Greece," he began with a bow in the direction of the table. "I have invited you to dinner on a grave issue. As you will know from my messengers, I have burned a hecatomb of cattle in offering to the god Apollo." There were a series of nods from around the table; they already knew this. Agamemnon did not move, but continued to glare.

"I have spoken with my mother, and the Achaeans are in a precarious position. The gods are taking lots, and Apollo has decided to side with the Trojans."

At his words a ripple went through the crowd. Several men shifted in their seats and Ajax the Greater frowned deeply. There was general unease with the idea of Achilles speaking with his goddess mother – it was a fact that was typically ignored for its irregularity, but the news he had delivered was much graver. Achilles had also decided to leave Adara's part in the message relaying out. It would only draw unnecessary attention to her, and he did not want any of these kings wondering over what was his.

"But there is more. She has warned me, any of us who do not sacrifice a hecatomb to the sun god are subject to his wrath."

Suddenly from the quiet there came a deep chuckle. The laughter was low and dry and Achilles' vision flashed red for a brief moment. Agamemnon's bulky figure shook with laughter, his massive girth shaking in the firelight.

"Oh that is very good Achilles," he said, his voice unnervingly cold in comparison to his dry chuckles. "Have us sacrifice a hecatomb! Just a minor offering to appease the gods! I did not think you were pious?" Achilles felt every muscle in his body threaten to snap with rage. How dare he. He insults myself, my mother, and Apollo all at once. Fool!

"I did not know you were one to doubt the word of a goddess," Achilles whispered. Although his voice was low, he knew that each man present could hear him. "Careful King of Kings."

"I have never doubted the gods, only their messenger. We do not all have goddesses for mothers, Mighty Achilles," Agamemnon mocked. "Therefore we must take you on your word, but does it not seem odd that Apollo would wait nine years to take a side? And then to make such a weighty request of us? There are few of us gathered here that can afford that sacrifice."

"We both know that only one man need afford it to save all of the Achaean forces," Achilles replied, the chill still in his voice.

"Yes of course. If I sacrifice a hecatomb, as King of Kings, all Greek warriors will be spared. But we are not so lucky in our relatives, and no gods answer my personal summons. I have no way of checking if what you say is true. And if I take you for your word? It is an easy ploy to weaken my economic hold over these forces – for we all know I cannot challenge you on the field."

"You dare to mistrust my word? At my own camp? After eating my own food? Have I not proven through my own sacrifice of one-hundred cattle that I think the threat to be true?" Achilles could not keep the anger from entering his voice. This insult had gone too far, and his vision flickered between red and maroon, making the table seem like a wicked scene from Tartarus in the firelight. Beside him, Patroclus sensed the danger, and got to his feet, resting hand on his shoulder. Achilles hardly felt it.

"My King Agamemnon," Patroclus began, his voice noticeably forced. "You also have no reason to not take Achilles at his word. He has spoken with a goddess! And he has never before made such a weighty request of you or any of the kings in all of our long years here at Troy." His pace was even, and he made good points that had several kings nodding around the table.

"Here here!" Diomedes agreed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arm. "It seems a folly to throw the warnings of a goddess to the wind."

"And we do not know who else's wrath we may incur if we do not obey Achilles mother," Nestor added, his wisdom lending itself to the Myrmidon cause. "It is said she was once in the favor of Zeus." Achilles could hear them reasoning, but his eyes were still locked on Agamemnon.

"I still see no reason to believe this old wives tale. None of my priests have received any sign of the god's anger, and in fact we saw an eagle flying over our camp just as the sun reached its zenith. An omen of victory from the god of medicine himself."

"So you will risk your entire army? This ten-year campaign? All to spite me," he spat.

Achilles had never felt a rage like this. A disrespect that no man had ever dared cast in his direction. He carried no weapon, but he would not need one to end the King's life. Achilles could almost imagine the sensation of his hands slowly suffocating Agamemnon's meaty neck, and his fingers twitched in longing. Agamemnon seemed to notice this motion, for his face grew grave.

"We all know you hold me in little esteem, Myrmidon," Agamemnon growled. "Ruining me economically gives you the perfect opportunity to supplant me, but I see through your scheme!" There was a wild look in his eyes, his fear getting the best of him.

"King of Kings, there is no plot. If you do not take Achilles word, take mine. Long have I been companion of all the Greek soldiers, from King to footman. I know what Achilles says is only in their defense; Men I would see saved, if they can be," Patroclus pleaded. This was true, Patroclus was extremely well regarded by all Achaeans, and he would be the man to have each common man's best interest at heart.

"I will not believe your lies," Agamemnon howled, getting to his feet in fury. "You would have me sacrifice my own food! Starve me! And rob me of my power! No – unless mighty Achilles deems to give me one-hundred of his own oxen, I will not do this that he asks. If this meal and poor hospitality was only a shield for this ridiculous request, then I spit on this camp."

He stepped back and spat on the sand, and then looked up at Achilles triumphantly. Achilles body convulsed, and he could feel every eye on him, awaiting his next move. Odysseus gave Achilles a slight jerk of his head to say do not do it. Achilles felt bitter rage course through him. It was all lies! Agamemnon would not starve, nor would he even loose much of his wealth. He could afford a hecatomb three times over. As for giving him one hundred of his own oxen? It was out of the question. I gave him my loyalty nine years ago – to serve him on the battlefields of Troy, but I swore then that I would never give him anything else.

"We both know that my cattle would not suffice for your hecatomb, King of Kings," Achilles sneered. How pointless this night had been. The Achaeans would die because of Agamemnon's pride.

"Then we must part in disagreement," Agamemnon said. Silence came except for the crackling of the fire, and Achilles cast his eyes around the table, willing one of the other kings to speak. But if Agamemnon was not going to listen to him, the strongest and most respected of the Greeks, then what chance did Odysseus or Nestor or any other man have. After another moment, Agamemnon smirked and left, fading into the night.

Achilles watched his figure until it was gone, and then he spun on his heal and stormed back to his tent, leaving Patroclus to dismiss the guests.

{{{}}}

Adara watched Achilles storm through the sand, his expression wild, his tempest blue eyes raging. From her vantage on the side of the gathering, she had heard the entire argument, her heart sinking with each exchange. She had failed. They would all die. A grief she had never felt for Lyrnessus welled within her. Lyrnessus had been fate – she had not know the Myrmidons were coming and therefore had not had a chance to change the outcome. But this? She had been given the opportunity to save hundreds of lives, but it had not been enough.

She felt tears sting at her eyes. What if something happened to one of Odysseus' men, many of which she had come to know by name? Or old Nestor and wise Phoenix? They were frail and would succumb to disease easily. I have lost one family; Hera do not let me lose another.

The kings got to their feet, Patroclus moving through the assembled crowd to clasp hands. Odysseus waited on the edge, hands on his hips and face contorted with concern. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up and summoned her over with a jerk of his head. Quickly, Adara approached.

"This was an ill fated night," Odysseus sighed, shaking his head at the ground.

"What is to be done? Can any of the kings afford to sacrifice their own hecatombs?" Adara asked, afraid of Odysseus' answer.

"Perhaps a few? Menelaus or Idomeneus. But Ithica is small and most of us can do nothing for our men," Odysseus said. His voice had a dull echo too it, and Adara felt her gut tighten in guilt.

"So what will you do?" She asked, horrified.

"Pray," Odysseus laughed bitterly. "Pray, and hope that the God's wrath is not directed at me."

With that the King bowed to her and took his leave, his face vacant with fear and grief. Adara watched him go, and slowly sank into the sand, tears stream down her cheeks.

"Stop crying, Adara," a cold voice said, and looking over her shoulder, Adara saw Briseis standing behind her, arms crossed before her. Adara felt a rage simmer inside her that she had never felt. All her life she had aimed to serve Briseis, no matter what evil act it had her doing. She had covered countless affairs, and watched the old Queen mistreat many of her servants that had not won her favor. But since arriving in Troy, whatever small measure of kindness she may have possessed at one point had left her. Captive life had made her cold – she would never learn to serve. "You shame Achilles, speaking to kings as if you were their equal." Briseis could not keep the bitterness out of her voice.

"You understand nothing," Adara said, not knowing where she found the courage to speak, but allowing her anger to fuel her words. "They are all going to die because of one mans foolishness."

"Do not speak of the King of Kings in that way. He has a power and wisdom that Achilles will never have," Briseis spat. Your lust for power will be the end of you, Briseis, Adara fumed. She got to her feet, unaware that her body was shaking.

"Agamemnon is a coward, and you are a disgrace. You shame Lyrnessus, Mynes, yourself."

"Mynes!" Briseis laughed. "That drunkard did not deserve the riches afforded him. And you cannot speak to me in such a tone."

"Will you hit me once more? I am not afraid of you," Adara laughed. She felt mad with rage and adrenaline. If anything, she thought that she might be the one to strike Briseis. "You are not my master anymore, I serve the Greeks, for it is they who took care of me when my home and family were ripped from me. You have nothing anymore, and cannot hurt me."

Briseis opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly another voice joined the conversation.

"Briseis!" Achilles shouted, storming towards the two women. His tempest blue eyes burned with bloodlust, and Adara could smell the blood that clung to his skin. With a quickness Adara could not have imaged, Achilles hands reached out and grabbed Briseis' throat, threatening to lift her off the ground. The woman's eyes widened in shock, short gasps blurting from her mouth.

"How dare you strike her," Achilles hissed.

"Achilles stop!" Adara shrieked, her throat threatening to rip, but Achilles could not hear her in her fury.

"You have no right to touch what is mine," he continued, his voice eerily possessive.

"STOP!" Adara howled, and without thinking she flung her body at Achilles, pushing him off balance in surprise. He let go of Briseis, who fell to the ground, and after a moment, got to her feet and fled.

Adara immediately stepped away from the warrior, who's eyes still burned with anger. The look on his face immediately sent a chill through her body.

"She touched you," Achilles murmured, his voice still colored with the possessive streak. Adara recalled how the man had assaulted her so many months ago in Agamemnon's tent, and Achilles had struck him down with one blow. "I will kill her." Instead of being alarmed by this, Adara felt her own wrath grow.

"Have you not doomed enough men tonight to die? Because you could not convince Agamemnon, how many people will never wake because of you?" Adara screamed, feeling tears begin to run down her face again. "Is murder the only skill you posses? She is worthless, and she will never touch me again."

"I doomed no one, if Agamemnon-" Achilles shouted, but he was cut short by Adara's scream of rage.

"Agamemnon? If you had put aside your pride and given him the cattle he asked for, or even, if you had not started this useless feud out of pride so many years ago, you could have saved hundreds of lives!" Adara wailed, balling her hands in fists. She knew she was splaying with fire, speaking to Achilles like this, who was like a violent storm waiting to break, but she could not control herself. Odysseus' grief stricken face glowed in her memory. Adara wanted to punch him, to kick him until he bled.

And then suddenly, Achilles' face crumbled. His fury dissipated and his tempest blue eyes screamed with emptiness. Alarmed, Adara put her arms out in front of her, as if to ward him away. Achilles's shoulders slumped and he hung his head, unable to meet her eyes. Adara knew this Achilles – his warrior's guilt that he kept hidden from everyone but herself and Patroclus. If she had not been so furious, she would have taken him back to his tent. Yet Adara could muster nothing but fury when she looked at him, and with one final glare, she turned and stormed away, leaving Achilles to his anguish.