I didn't mean to make this entire chapter from Achilles POV, but it happens. Thanks again for all the wonderful comments! Keep them coming - they are so inspirational and helpful and I cannot say enough wonderful things about those who take the time to express their thoughts on this tale. Hope you enjoy this latest chapter! Thanks for being here and happy reading:)

Chapter 38

It was the third day of Patroclus' funeral games. Seven since Patroclus had passed, and six since Achilles had cut down Hector in retribution. Yet, for the life of him, he could not comprehend how the body that lay in the sand before him had not begun to rot. Hector's skin still glistened and his back had grown tanner from the sun's rays beating down upon the corpse's back. Curse the gods he fumed, his vision flickering red at the corners and his hands flexing, longing for the feel of his spear Old Pelion beneath his fingers. He knew that it was only divine intervention preventing him from seeking this last revenge. As if Hector's rotting body would heal what has happened – correct your mistakes. His head seemed to pound within his skull and he could feel his stomach rumble, but food had turned to ash in his stomach and it was only for Adara's sake that he had managed to consume any food at all.

At last he ripped his eyes from the figure before him when he heard the gentle approach of the only person that could manage to stir emotion within him that was not anger or grief. Adara's blue chiton clinked in the breeze and her eyes were determinately locked upon his own face, avoiding glancing at Hector's corpse with all her determination. She had howled and cried and begged him to return the body the night before, but her need to do the right thing only forced him to dig in his heels further. He would not bend his will, his pride to hers. They were both stubborn, and when at last she had sat on the edge of their bed her head in her hands in defeat, Achilles had returned to himself, his anger fading. Crouching before her between her legs, they had stayed with forehead pressed to forehead for hours, relishing in each other's embrace. Achilles knew he would never be able to convince her why his actions were necessary just as she would never be able to tell him why he was wrong. Recalling this, he reached out his hand for hers. With a quirk of her lip Adara slid her hand into his, the calluses on her fingers as familiar to him these days as his own.

Achilles brought her hand to his lips before wrapping her arm around his and leading her towards the wood. They moved in silence, her presence giving him a chance to enjoy the way the light sprinkled through the leaves of the trees, casting a spotted pattern upon the ground. Adara's hands gripped his arm like iron – he knew she despised the funeral games. Does she think of him? Of the love she lost? Achilles often wondered this with hot flashes of jealousy so great that they made his head rush with lack of air, and then the next moment he was nearly doubled over with guilt. How can you be jealous of the dead? How can you doubt her – she who stands beside you even now? Achilles knew that he was ill, but there seemed no solution, no healing from the darkness to which he had descended. There was only his grief and his anger and Adara. Only her. Reflexively he wrapped a possessive arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side, his vision flickering red.

Her skin was as familiar to him these days as the Myrmidon camp or the path of the sun. After she had returned from Odysseus' camp there had been no more questions of parting from his side. In the mornings they dressed each other and dogged one other's footsteps – him following her as she tended to matters of the camp and her traipsing after him when he went to prepare for some facet of the games. At meals she was reserved, speaking only to a few: Odysseus, Menelaus, Nestor and Phoenix, while Achilles felt unnaturally energetic, shouting for rounds of wine and songs that sent the foot soldiers spiraling into a drunken tizzy. And at night… At night there was never enough of her. His back was covered in thin lines from where he nails had scratched him while her chest and neck bore the marks of his love. And yet, even now he felt the desire, no the need, to drag her down into the sand with him until she was calling out his name for all to hear. Drawing his pointer finger along her collarbone as they walked, feeling the heat of her body, he knew she would comply if he wished it – her appetite for him matched his own for her, but Achilles also knew the truth beneath it all.

Nothing had filled the aching void in his chest. Like an open cave where some stray beast had once roosted, the creature had migrated on leaving Achilles cold and empty. Not even Adara's presence, which once had been a beacon of light against the haunting shadows of war, could stop the numbing memories of Patroclus from seeping into each moment of his day. Here is where we ate breakfast. Here is where he pushed me into the water on my twenty and fifth name day. Here I tended to a knife wound Patroclus received. These thoughts were unstoppable, berating his mind so that not even sleep could bring closure. As they crossed the stream Achilles thought here Patroclus and Adara bathed each morning. A wave of nausea filled him as self-loathing surged, and yet he was unable to keep the jealousy from peaking. It seemed that in his weakened state he was even losing control of his mind. Achilles meager breakfast of dried dates threatened to resurface, and he gripped Adara tight until the feeling passed.

"Must we dine with them tonight," he heard Adara ask. Her voice was hoarse and her eyes stared resolutely ahead as they walked on and on. Achilles could understand her exhaustion – he felt it himself, and yet he was honor bound to host the kings of Greece. Patroclus deserves the highest service.

"Yes, it is expected of us," he said, but he could hear the hollow echo in his own voice. Had he had his way, he would have held a manned vigil each night for twelve nights and then sent the body back to Pythia to be burned and buried, but it was not custom.

"The competitors should not receive prizes. Competition should be for Patroclus' glory alone," she spat, and Achilles felt her fingernails in his side. To Achilles it seemed as if her words reached him from the other side of the beach as his head swam and again he felt faint with another shock of light-headedness. Once more he was thankful for Adara's steady presence at his side.

"And you," Adara added, her voice composed once again. "Must eat and drink during the Javelin contest. You do Patroclus a dishonor if you collapse, and I will not have the other kings speaking ill of you." The warmth in her voice grounded him to the land, and without warning he stopped walking, wrapping his second arm around her so that her face was pressed to his chest.

"You are mine," he whispered into her ear, her body radiating heat under his touch, the curls of her hair tickling his skin. It was not a thank you for all that she had done, the countless ways in which she had supported him, but he hoped that she would understand. He did not know what Adara had gained from their relationship except for heartache and pain, yet he could not bear to imagine her anywhere but by his side. She is mine he thought again with a sense of satisfaction so deep that for a moment the hunger that gnawed at his stomach subsided.

Suddenly, without warning, Adara's hands left his waist and tangled themselves in the front of his chiton, pulling him roughly down so that his lips crashed against hers. Achilles felt an explosion of heat, his hands grappling with her waist, pulling her flush against his skin as he closed his eyes and began to return her kiss. Her lips were commanding against his, her tongue invading his mouth, and Achilles stumbled a few steps back in surprise from the ferocity of her attack.

When he felt one of her hands snake around his neck, Achilles at last felt his body come to life. Gasping for breath against her lips Achilles at last stood his ground under her onslaught, his hands skimming down her back, across the curve of her hips to sit just below her bottom. With no ceremony he lifted Adara from the ground, chuckling into her neck as he heard her sharp intake of breath. She was light, no more than a whisper of wind in his arms. A tornado perhaps he thought, as Adara thrashed within his grip in attempt to reach every inch of his skin. In the back of his mind a voice nagged him that they were already late to start the games, but Achilles did not care. Patroclus would want me to live, not mourn Achilles thought with conviction. Pressing his smile into Adara's shoulder, Achilles felt her legs wrap around his waist as he pushed her against the trunk of a Cyprus tree. Her fingers were everywhere – his hair, his neck, his back – sending tendrils of pleasure flaming through his body. In his dehydrated state his brain capacity had been reduced, and it left only room for thoughts of her.

"Adara," he panted now, his fingers which usually were dexterous, clumsy as he tugged at her skirts pooled around his hips. Her lips devoured his own, her hands on the back of his head pushing their faces closer and closer together until the only air he received came from her lungs. Had he ever needed her more? He wasn't certain, but the burning within his abdomen was becoming unbearable.

Without ceremony Achilles thrust into her, moaning into her skin as Adara threw her head back against the trunk of the tree behind her. This was bliss. This was escapism. Had any two bodies ever fit together so well? Achilles hands forced her legs wider apart as he pushed into her for a second time, pressing her further against the tree for support.

"Gods," she whispered, her eyes closed and fingers digging into his shoulders as they moved as one.

Pulling his head back from where he had buried it in Adara's shoulder, Achilles peered up at her as they moved. Unlike at night, the dappled green light made the sweat on her brow glisten. Her lips, which were parted as she breathed, were moist from his own mouth, and her hair fanned across her tanned shoulders like the mane of a lion. Suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling Achilles so rarely felt he did not know its name, he returned his face to its place in Adara's neck. His throat was constricted and his chest was as light as the first rosy fingers of dawn in the morning. Tears stung at his eyes, and if had been within his power at that moment Achilles would have melted his body into hers so that they might never be parted again.

At last Adara's legs tightened around his hips and she released a small whimper, her head falling forward onto his shoulder. The dampness on her skin was a welcome sign of her pleasure, and as Achilles found his release, he finally set her back down on the ground, their chitons once again falling into place. She hugged him close, humming some tuneless melody as he ran his fingers through her hair. Patroclus, forgive me for feeling such joy in a world that you do not inhabit. As if she had read his thought, Adara lifted her head and rested her chin against his chest so that her golden, catlike eyes met his own. Her lips were swollen, and one corner turned up slightly in a hesitant smile.

"I do not presume to know," she murmured, "but I do not think Patroclus would be mad." Again Achilles was overwhelmed with that nameless feeling as he gazed down at her. The surge of heat reminded him of his warrior's rage without the anger, the wave of need of his possessive nature without the fear of loss. It was more than love, he had always loved her hadn't he? Perhaps not this strongly, but without question yes. Maybe, he considered, pressing his lips to her forehead before he stepped away and took her hand, it was just the combination of it all. After all, the situation had not changed. Patroclus was still dead, the war still raging on, and he was still fated to die and leave Adara behind. And yet, as he felt her palm against his, Achilles was at a loss for words, the tightness in his throat increasing.

As they reached the edge of the wood, Achilles closed his eyes, feeling drained by the emotional rollercoaster he had undergone and the poor treatment of his body by himself over the past few days. Upon the back of his eyelids crept the image of Adara pressed against the tree, eyes closed and skin glowing in the late afternoon sun. Without knowing how he comprehended it, Achilles understood that image was how he would remember her as he waited in the darkness of Hades for their reunion long after he had passed.

Later that evening, when at last everyone had returned to their respective camps, Achilles once again took Adara's hand and led her from the deck of his ship where they had watched the sun set over the Aegean back to their quarters. Her eyes drooped with exhaustion, feet stumbling in the sand, and he wondered how quickly she would fall to sleep when at last her head hit the mattress.

Achilles felt slightly less nauseous than he had that morning. After their bought in the woods, he had been able to stomach a full plate of food and gulped down glass after glass of water, his bodily need overtaking the taste of ash on his tongue. Thus replenished, he took the lead tugging Adara through the maze of tents on the beach until at last they were ducking to the privacy of their quarters.

"I hope Agamemnon manages to kill himself with his prize," Adara sighed, annoyance fading to exhaustion in her voice. Achilles felt his mouth pull back into a smirk at her words, unable to hide his amusement. Agamemnon had sat out of each of the competitions except for the spear throwing this afternoon, of course forcing Achilles to halt the contest and declare Agamemnon the automatic winner. It was not true, but it was expected that no one be given the chance to shame the King of Kings by disgracing him with a loss. Achilles face had burned and his vision flickered red when he presented Agamemnon with the bronze tripod he had designated from his own stores. Has he not shamed me enough Achilles thought, pulling his chiton over his head and throwing it into the sand with unnecessary force. Glancing up, he saw Adara giving him a knowing look.

"I should not have brought it up, I didn't mean to upset you," she said, laying back onto their bed and stifling a yawn with the back of her hand.

"I have yet to see anyone kill themselves with a tripod, but if we are lucky, that pig will be the first," Achilles murmured, his chest vibrating has his voice dropped dangerously.

Without any more pretense, Achilles joined Adara on their bed, lying beside her and propping his head up on his elbow. Her head rolled to the side so she could meet his gaze, but he could see the exhaustion in the slow rise and fall of her chest and the in fluttering of her eyelids. Gently, as if she might scamper away at any moment, Achilles pressed his lips to hers, inhaling her scent of rosemary and sea salt. He did not deepen the kiss, and when he got no reaction from Adara, he pulled away, once again opening his eyes so that he could take in her face.

"You are happier today," she stated, her brow wrinkling slightly. Achilles felt the smirk smear across his face once more, his other hand trailing up her body until his arm rested upon her chest and his finger began to once more trace her collarbone.

"No," he whispered, pressing his lips to hers once more. "No, not happier, just better prepared to bear it all." The space that Patroclus had occupied in his life was just as empty, but the things that mattered too him had grown in weight too, and he felt more balanced. Adara did not speak for some time, allowing Achilles to trace his fingers over the lines of her body without hesitation.

"When does the fighting resume?" She asked. Achilles knew her voice would have been tense had she not been so exhausted, but still Achilles forced his hands stop their exploring. Of course this has burdened her he thought with some guilt. She now must fear each time I leave for battle – before she never had cause.

"Tomorrow," he replied, wishing that he could have given her any answer but that. For a moment Adara closed her eyes, and then with a sigh she gave a slight jerk of her head.

"Do the Myrmidon's know?" Adara asked, turning to glance at him once more.

"Yes, most of them. The tale is better known in Greece," he admitted, but when she did not appear angry he felt his muscles relax.

"I suppose it is why they follow you so fearlessly," she mused after a moment. "If you, who know that you are fated to die at any moment upon that field, can charge into battle without fear, then they have no excuse."

Her words sent a rush of warmth through him, and without thinking he resumed his stroking of her collarbone. Achilles had never thought of his fate in this way – perhaps the fates had given him a gift in some ways. An army of men who would do whatever he said, because they knew he was not thinking of his own life – it was a mighty gift indeed.

"I think you may be right," he said with a slight smile, "but we are also family. Pat – He and I have trained with these men for years. They trust me."

Adara nodded and then rolled onto her side, curling her body against his.

"Wake me in the morning? Before the men march?" She asked. Achilles had moved his hand to her hair where he was slowly unwinding the ceremonial braid Adara had tied.

"If you wish it," he said, pulling her into a sitting position so that he could help her undress. She sat between his legs, her body limp to his touch as he loosened one strand of hair at a time.

"I wish it," Adara murmured.

At last he was finished, and once undressed, Adara stood and wrapped her arms around his shoulders so that his chin rested upon her stomach. He rubbed small circles into her back, feeling the give in her skin and the way her body shivered at his touch. For Adara's part she raked her fingers through his hair, combing his scalp and causing a deep hum to issue from his chest. Her actions were not motivated as they had been that morning – only content to be near him.

"Wake me in the morning," She said at last, bending to press her lips to his, her skin soft as doves wings, before crawling over him and wrapping herself in a fur to fall asleep. Achilles watched her from his seat on the edge of the bed – it took mere seconds from the moment she lay down till her chest began to rise and fall in the steady rhythm of sleep.

Left alone to his thoughts, Achilles once again began to feel the creeping fingers of sadness within his chest, but before he could dwell upon it, he heard the gentle rumbling of a cart coming to a halt outside his tent. Knowing that it was well past sundown, Achilles got to his feet, sore muscles protesting the rapid movement. This actions that were second nature at this point, Achilles grabbed his blue skirt from its peg and tied it around his waist before pulling his sword from its sheath and stepping out into the cool night air.

At first he sight bewildered him, and then it alarmed him.

The cart was clearly of fine make, although unadorned, with craftmanship that showed a deep understanding of wood and tools it took to shape it. Two mules pawed at the ground, both strong with hair braided in the style of Troy, and at the reigns a servant and beside him, a hunched figure with a black hood. For a moment a hand of ice seemed to enclose Achilles heart. Perhaps death had come to claim him early? But then he stilled when he recalled that it would be Hermes, not Hades himself, to guide him to the underworld when it was at last his time.

Peering closer at the cart, his eyes were drawn past the two figures where the light of the moon cast the image of one other upon the shores. His mother stood upon the edge of the clearing, weeping. Achilles gut constricted, but he made no move to embrace her. From the far side of the clearing, Thetis gave a subtle nod, and then in a blink she had disappeared. Only the lessening of tension in his stomach told Achilles that she had once more returned to the sea. If mother guides me he mused, and returning his gaze the cart and it's drivers, Achilles drove the tip of his sword into the sand and approached unarmed.

"Who comes here, unannounced and unbidden," he said, his voice colder than he intended. The gods were playing their games with him, as they always have he thought with venom. "Though dark it may be, my eyes would recognize the armor and work of Troy."

At his words, the servant blinked rapidly and even at a distance Achilles could see the quake in his shoulders. The hooded figure, however, stood and dismounted the cart, approaching slowly until he stood just before Achilles, falling to his knees and throwing back his hood to reveal a lined face and hair the color of silver.

"Fifty son's I had ere you came to Troy," the man said, taking Achilles hands in his own. He felt frozen to the ground, struck by the figure before him with the voice like rushing wind, his body cold as if doused in ice. "Fifty son's I had, and Hector the bravest and strongest of them. Yet it was not to be, and the blessings of almighty Zeus and bright Apollo have been slain upon the sands by your blade – fifty sons I had, and countless cut down by you."

Achilles felt bile rise in his throat. It was as if he had stepped into one of his nightmares – as if one of the shades of the countless dead had been brought to life to torment his waking moments. Priam, for it could be no other man, pressed his lips to Achilles palms, his skin like paper and his entire body convulsing. Achilles' throat burned, but he repressed a shudder and the flight urge to throw the figure from him.

"I plead with you now, Fleet-footed Achilles, for I have done what no man has done before. I have kissed the hands of that which killed my son. I plead, think of your father, who will never know my sorrow. Consider his grief if he were to be me. Consider good Peleus and give one final act of good. Return my son to me so that we may grieve in the proper way, for tho' we may be enemies, we need not forget our humanity."

Achilles understood why his mother had told him to leave his weapon, for it his sword had been in his hand, Achilles would have lopped Priam's feeble head from his neck with one sure movement. Instead, he stared down into the eyes of the man before him. Red with days of crying, lined by age and sorrow, skin translucent in the light of the moon. There was nothing regal about the way Priam had come to beg Achilles except the ever proud straightness of his back and the way the wizened old man's gaze was able to match his own. Achilles felt a searing in his chest as his pride screamed for him to banish Priam from his sight. He demands special recognition – he faults me for the murder of his sons. Does he not know that we are at war? Achilles considered that Priam had never wanted this war, it was forced upon him by his son, and being a dutiful father Troy had risen to defend Paris. A dutiful father, and a foolish one. He should have returned the Spartan queen when she set foot on Trojan soil, and he should never have presumed that his sons would live. Yet despite the anger that ripped at him, Achilles grasped Priam's forearms and pulled him to his feet.

As the man teetered upward, Achilles glanced around them, his eyes falling at last upon Hector's body. With a swiftness that meant the image could only have been sent by the gods themselves, Achilles instead saw the great hall of Pythia, his father grasping his arms, pulling him in for one final bear hug. Even in his age, Peleus had possessed great strength, and Achilles glancing down at the hands on his forearms saw that their hands held the same shape.

"You will bring us honor," Peleus said in a voice loud enough so that all people gathered in the hall could hear. There were no parting words of love nor tears shed, only the firm look of a father who had never truly known his son.

And then Achilles was peering up at Chiron, who was instructing him on how to sew wounds closed that not only would the other person be saved, but so too would Achilles' war-mongering soul.

And then before him was Patroclus, his face shadowed in doubt but still bearing that familiar, bright smile that was as natural to him as he pulled Achilles into an embrace, seeing for the first time Achilles self-loathing at the lives he had ended.

When at last his mind cleared Achilles beheld Priam standing before him again, and with a stirring in his heart he began to weep. Not for Hector, who's life had meant as little to Achilles as any other, but for those that had built him. His father, Chiron, and Patroclus most of all. Those who he owed his glory too, and those he would give it too, if it was within his power.

Seeing his tears, Peleus too began to weep. After some time in each other's embrace, Achilles let go of the old man and stepped away.

"Go and sit in my quarters – I will prepare your son's body," he grunted, his voice thick. If Priam was surprised, he did not show it. Instead, Priam seemed to shrivel in upon himself, as if in that exact moment his son's fate had become real too him. Would I mourn my son's passing with such dignity, or would I too be emotionless like Peleus Achilles wondered, not bothering to wipe away the tears that now rolled down his neck. It was not worth considering – he would be dead before Neoptolemus ever arrived upon the Trojan shores.

"Let it be said when this all is over that you were not just a warrior, but a man as well who comprehends a father's love," Priam whispered, his gratefulness making Achilles squirm. It was only his pride that begged him to return Hector's body, Achilles knew, not some need for forgiveness through a pseudo-father.

"The mourning process is three days in my country," Achilles said, ignoring Priam's comment on his heart. "Name the time you need to properly dispose of your dead and it shall be so." Priam's eyes widened in surprise and some of the wrinkles that lined his face became shallow, making him appear ten years younger.

"It is twelve days to mourn a prince, but –" he began, but Achilles cut him off.

"Then twelve days you shall have. And on the thirteenth, send forth your armies – I will be waiting for them," Achilles murmured, his voice emotionless. Priam nodded gravely, and then Achilles brushed past the figure, exhausted by this confrontation with his guilt and pride and the memories of those he had disappointed. Adara will be happy to see the body go he thought as he bent to carry Hector's corpse the to the cleaning tent. But even this thought could not keep his tears at bay.

"I will see you soon, Horse Tamer," Achilles said, setting the body onto the table slab. "At the gates of Hades we will make our amends."