Here is a happy chapter because that is what I ended up writing:) A gift to everyone who has continued and stuck with me on this journey! Thanks for being here and happy readingXx

Chapter 39

Achilles was true to his word, and Adara awoke to the gentle caress of his hand upon her arm. Blinking in the early morning light, she rolled over and found him encased in his golden suit, only his head unadorned as his helmet rested on the edge of their bed. Their eyes met, Achilles' steady and her own wide.

Immediately she was awake, her heart thumping wildly as if she had jumped off a cliff edge into a raging see below or had been forced to walk across hot coals. Too soon she thought, seeing the easy way he stood and the all-knowing smirk on his face. Too soon, too soon, too soon. How many days had it been since Patroclus' had left them? Since he was encased in a golden urn carved by Achilles' own hand? How could the gods force Achilles to rage into battle without his greatest companion by his side. Suddenly swept up in the cruelty of the gods, Adara staggered to her feet. She felt like she could scream and rip her hair from her skull and those around her would melt with the pain in her voice. Would today be the day? The thought was unbearable, and for once Adara was thankful that she had not been able to eat well these past days – her body had nothing to empty.

"Adara," he murmured, his voice steady – so steady that it sent a dagger right through her chest. Of course he does not fear death. She could not look at him, not bear the idea that he was marching into battle at the head of the Myrmidons while his mind was fracturing into a hundred thousand pieces in grief and anger. He will be foolish, he will make a mistake she someone felt certain of this. With a shudder she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and forced herself to look up at him, the smirk on his face replaced by one of his rare smiles so powerful that she felt her knees grow weak and her abdomen tighten, all thoughts of his emaciated corpse driven from her brain.

"Adara," he repeated, his tongue forming the syllables of her name with such tender passion she wished he would never stop saying her name. "We are not going into battle today," he said, his grin widening further. His words sent an odd thrill through her chest and for a moment she felt a blossom of hope so radiant within her that she gasped aloud.

"But last night –" she began, but he shook his head, his smile never fading. Adara did not know if she wanted to hit him round the head with the butt of his spear or drag him down into the bed with her. Both options had their merits, but she needed to hear what he had to say next with a hunger so ravenous she felt slightly nauseous.

"Last night, after you slept, King Priam came to our shores. He has taken Hector's body back for dressing and burial and I have given Troy twelve days to mourn," he explained, his voice full of a richness Adara had not recognized was missing until he spoke. Her mind was frozen, unable to comprehend the words he had spoken. Priam, here in the Myrmidon camp? How had he gotten past the walls and the guards and the Myrmidons? How had Achilles promised him twelve days? How had Achilles refrained from strangling the old man in his remorse? The thoughts came one after another, a flurry of activity in her mind like a storm of crows battering her brain. None of it made sense. Achilles would have murdered anyone else for demanding such a thing, yet he had allowed Priam to enter his camp and leave without harming the man. So he says she thought. Without a thought she glided past Achilles, for once unaware of his summer blue gaze upon her and through the flap of their tent out onto the beach, lost in the whirlwind of questions badgering her mind.

It was like stepping into a dream. Hector's body was gone – the space that the corpse had formerly occupied once more only pristine white sand. Not even a speck of blood remained to show that previously the Prince and hope of Troy had lain there for days, rotting for the sake of Achilles' revenge and anger.

Adara's body seemed to glow, and if she'd had the power to summon the warmth of the sun and the beauty of spring and all of the Muses she would have done it. Perhaps he is not descending to madness she allowed herself to consider, heart swelling so rapidly it hurt. She felt impenetrable, as if the entire host of Persia could shoot arrows at her chest and she would burn them all in the air, ashes raining over their heads.

"What?" Was all she could manage, turning to see him standing in the frame of their doorway. He was still smiling, unabashed, and unbroken. For the first time since waking she truly met his gaze, allowing herself to read everything in their summer blue, tempest-like depths. The lines under his eyes were receding, his cheeks bore the faintest pink flush, and in his gaze there was nothing of the red and black tinge that had haunted her dreams for days. Standing before her in his golden armor, the light still blue in the early moments of the morning, Adara was struck with a feeling of sublimity, suddenly in awe of him in a way she had never been before. Her mouth had fallen open, but she was unable to care about how ridiculous she must look wrapped only in one of his furs, hair wild from sleep, and mouth hanging open like a fish. Seeing her, Achilles face glistened with pride, it oozed from the ease of his stance to his arms that he had crossed before his chest.

Achilles had returned to her. He had danced with the messengers of Hades and tread paths she could never wander, teetering on the precipice of ruin and disaster, and had of his own volition turned back. She could still see it, the sadness in his eyes, but looking at him she no longer felt as if she would drown in his sorrow, let alone her own. There were no words for the feelings within her for it was more than love – love seemed too weak a word. Unable to speak, she stood before him, her mouth still wide, chest heaving as if she had run the entire length of the Achaean camp.

"It is as I told you," he began, his voice warm like a summer's day, like the light from stars and gentle caresses of the wind. "I have returned the body."

It did not matter that the man had been forced to come to Achilles camp and beg him or that Achilles had not made the first move, he had always been to proud, would always be. Achilles had returned the body, and he had returned to her. Perhaps different than before, but hers. Only one question still nagged at her mind.

"Why are you dressed for battle," she demanded. It was the final gap in his story, one that she had never expected when she went to sleep last night.

"I must speak with Agamemnon and tell him to halt the armies for twelve days," Achilles offered. So he was dressing the part of a noble prince, Adara thought, feeling a tendril of ice seep into her chest. The idea of Achilles demanding something from Agamemnon brought unbidden his face to the forefront of her mind as he told her she must be sent to Menelaus for safekeeping. His demands had led to their separation and to Patroclus' death. Achilles' current course of action seemed to familiar, to close to what had occurred.

"And if he does not agree?" Adara asked, feeling the tendril of ice wedge its way into her heart.

"He will not," Achilles assured her, and something in his voice told her that there was more happening that he let on. Surely the gods are involved she realized, which would explain Achilles certainty in promising the Trojan King twelve days of mourning. Whatever residual tension had remained melted away with the confidence in his voice.

With no questions left to ask, Adara finally allowed herself to approach him. There was nothing else to her but him; as golden as Apollo, as beautiful as Aphrodite, as strong as Zeus and Ares, he stood before her and Adara knew just as she had known so long ago that she would do anything for him, that when it came to Achilles she was not loyal, she was selfish.

At last the distance between them, which had felt like an eternity, was closed. Achilles lifted one hand and placed it behind her head, angling her face up to kiss her. Her chest seemed to be leaking with that unnamed feeling, her body levitating off the ground at his touch. With abandon she kissed him back as if she was a parched traveler and he was a mountain stream. When at last they broke apart, he once more smiled down at her, this time gently in a way that would not make her shiver violently with desire. As if sensing her thoughts, Achilles chuckled, the sound sending thrills of energy throughout her.

"I will return soon, where should I look for you?" He asked, his fingers absentmindedly intertwining with her hair.

"The river," she said at last, remembering their moment in the woods yesterday. If Achilles thought of it too, however, he did not show it. She knew it was selfish to bring him to that place because it made him think of her time with Patroclus, but she could not bear the thought of sharing him with any other this day, not when he had returned to her, and in the wood they would be alone.

"Good. I must be off before the army begins to gather. When the Myrmidons begin to wake, send them to the other camps and instruct them to inform the kings that we do not march today nor the next eleven days, and on the thirteenth I will lead all of Greece into battle myself." His voice was strong, and with one final peck of her lips that seemed to send explosions throughout her stomach, he turned and marched towards the rest of the Achaean camp.

His words had sent a shiver of dread through her, but she forced these thoughts away. Twelve days together! She wondered, still wrapped in shock, what god or goddess had given her this gift. Her eyes followed Achilles until he disappeared, his movements as lithe and graceful as they had been when she first beheld him in the Queens chambers of Lyrnessus.

When he was gone, Adara quickly changed and did as she'd been instructed, sending men to each of the respective camps with Achilles message. Nothing filled her more than the raised eyebrows and open jaws as she told them what they were to say. Twelve days she thought again, relishing in the joy that Achilles had given her and his men alike. Exhaustion men had never before shown seemed to finally reveal itself, the idea of a twelve day respite unfathomable. Adara was forced to recall that before her arrival upon the beach, these men had fought for nine years with at best three days off at a time.

At last when the task was done and each of her messengers had left, she went to the provisions tent and gathered materials to make a fire and a haunch of dried meat. It was a heavy load and Adara was forced to wrap it in a linen cloth and throw it over her shoulder, trudging at last into the wood where Achilles would meet her later. She knew that a dried sacrifice was not what the gods deserved, but she needed to thank them for this unexpected gift of time when it had suddenly seemed so foreign to her, and she had never outgrown her disgust of blood. And I do not know how to perform a live sacrifice she admitted to herself with a wrinkle in her pride, and it was common knowledge that an ill performed sacrifice could be worse than no sacrifice at all.

It took her some time to start a fire, but at last she began to cut off pieces of meat with a small knife she had brought, burning slices one by one to each of the twelve Olympian gods and to any other deity she could recall. Her voice was loud and sure and she felt the wind stir the leaves and the familiar clenching in her gut and she knew that the gods had received and accepted her offering. When at last the meat was gone she allowed the fire to die and then picked up the ashes and bones and threw them into the river where they would wash into the sea as a final offering to the land and sea and gods of the deep.

Achilles was true to his word and found her shortly thereafter. If he smelled the sacrifice on her skin, he did not ask, instead taking her hand and content to be with her. She had expected this tenderness after his heated gaze this morning, but she had not expected the change in him she would see over the next twelve days. It was as if a part of him that he had repressed all his life, been forced to put aside in order to seize his destiny had finally been allowed to surface. Much later, long after the war was over when she looked back on her time upon the Trojan shore, she remembered these days as their happiest time together, despite their losses.

Achilles seemed freed by some burden that Adara did not know she had been carrying for him all along. Suddenly carefree, he allowed himself to laugh with his men and joke with his captains, the devilish gleam in his eyes sending spirals of heat to her abdomen when she caught him staring at her from across the camp. It was not that he had changed, but by somehow stepping out from under the shadow of death, his pride no longer seemed unbearable, his quick temper reasonable, his need to possess every inch of Adara endearing. He sparred with his men, skills at warfare no longer bringing forth images of dead counterparts in her mind, but instead a fine art, his body fluid as a snake. Kings and Princes came for meals, Odysseus most of all, each of them leaving with smiles across their faces and wonder in their eyes, and Adara knew with a sureness that cured even her deepest fears that his mind was healed. Menelaus even came to one meal upon her request, remaining silent the entire time until he at last seized a chance to escape. He had watched the dialogue between herself and Achilles almost as if he had been struck dumb by a stray lightning bolt from Zeus or arrow from Eros.

"You don't have to leave so early," she had said, walking with him to the edge of their camp. "The battle will not commence for several more days, you have plenty of time to rest?" She offered, unable to understand why he was running like a feral cat caught stealing from a kitchen. She knew Menelaus did not approve of Achilles, but after her time with him she knew there was something more.

"For someone so smart you can be so foolish, although I expected you're blinded to everything else but him these days," he nearly spat, and Adara took a step away, feeling her eyebrows shoot up her forehead.

"Then why don't you explain," she said, crossing her arms and rocking onto one hip as if to say you need to have a good reason for attempting to ruin my joy. Menelaus looked out into the adjoining camp for some time, his lips pressed into a thin line before he finally sighed and turned to face her, his ruddy complexion highlighted by the mid-afternoon sun.

"Do you think I can bear to watch the two of you when the woman I love has spent the last ten years running away from me?" He finally said, the natural downturn of his eyes exaggerated by the pain she saw there. You fool she wanted to moan at herself, how could she have been so ridiculous as to invite him into their space? It would be torture to see two people as happy as herself and Achilles and feel nothing. "I know that you meant no harm by inviting me today Adara, but you know I hold no respect for Achilles – the way he recklessly sacrificed the lives of my men for his pride, what happened to Patroclus, his dishonor of Hector's body – all of it. And to then be here and see someone I hold so low lifted and exalted by the gods? This is more than I can bear."

Adara had nodded, listening as he rattled off the list of Achilles sins. She felt almost as if another person was hearing these things because they sparked none of the anger or animosity she had once felt over his deeds. Yes, Achilles had done horrible things – he was a monster upon the field of battle that had killed so many men he could turn the Aegean sea red with their blood, and yet she still loved him. She too had done horrible things – abandoned Briseis when she had been sworn to her, broken Patroclus' heart, ordered Achilles to demand the release of the priestess from Agamemnon starting their feud, momentarily breaking apart Patroclus and Achilles. There is no time for me to be angry she again thought, some invisible measure of time within her chest seemed to wind further, the gradually setting sun reminding her that Achilles would be ripped from her soon. Yes, he has done horrible things, but perhaps that is because he chose wrong. He chose glory, and with it meant putting to use his greatest and also most horrible gift – death. Perhaps if he had chosen to stay and have his name forgotten, Achilles could have been a man of peace instead of being haunted by the ghosts of his past. But it did not matter. He had made his choice, and whether he was worth loving or not Adara did not care – she did love him, and there was not enough time to decide whether he was worthy of that gift.

"I will visit your camp soon," she had said at last, resting her hand on Menelaus' shoulder before returning to camp and to Achilles, who was seated at the table where she had left him and who's tempest blue eyes seemed to burn a hole through her chest straight to her heart.

But the change was not just in his spirit, the two of them seemed to grow closer, although she had not thought that possible until it happened. Some part of her knew it was that they had suffered through Patroclus' loss together, they who had loved him above all others. There was something to be said for suffering together – Adara never needed to ask when she saw Achilles tears forming nor questioned herself when she offered herself as comfort. On his part, Achilles never once asked her about her relationship with Patroclus – why she had chosen him first, what it was about him that had repelled her. He knew there was a guilt there that she would go to the grave with and answers that she did not want to face.

They spent the twelve days of respite in what seemed an eternal state of bliss. It did not rain or thunder, and again Adara understood this to be a sign of a gift from the gods. They have given us time, and she would make the most of it.

In some ways it was the same as before Hector's body had been taken, and in other ways they had evolved – grown. Much of their time was spent together as it had always been, but there was no longer a dying need to follow each other like young children lost at the market for the first time. She knew if he went off hunting or swimming with his men that he would return to her. He already has. And when they were together, it was more domestic, more playful than their serious encounters cleaning armor or feasting kings.

Achilles accompanied her to made bread for lunches and dinners.

"Stop punching the dough as if it was a Trojan soldier," Adara said, biting back tears of laughter. He gave her a scowl so unpleasant that if she had not loved him she would have quivered.

"You said to punch it," he reminded her.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean take out all your anger on it," she corrected him. Achilles, it turned out, was a quick learner, mostly because he could not suffer the wound to his pride over not being the best at something? When was the last time he was not the greatest? Strongest, fastest, deadliest, most beautiful, daughter of a goddess, son of a good man, beloved of Olympus. The list of his accomplishments was extensive, and it therefore gave Adara extreme satisfaction to watch him meander through menial tasks such as breadmaking.

"How do you do this every day?" He asked, letting out a snarl as the bread he was supposed to be kneading ripped in two once more. Letting out another laugh that seemed to physically cause him pain, she took his hands in hers.

"You need more flower on your hands. Once you get used to the motion you will be very good at it, I know you have gentle hands," she said, casting him a smirk that turned the frown on his face into a devious smile.

Achilles had taught her as well. On their fourth day of respite Achilles went on a foraging expedition to collect herbs for the medicine tent. With the exception of the healers themselves, he was the best at recognizing which plants would help from which would harm and poison, and he did, as Adara soon learned, have a knack for spotting things that no other would have seen without godly eyesight.

"This one helps with fever," he said, stooping to pull a red stalked, leafy green plant from the ground at its base, the herb springing from the land still clutching the earth with its thin white roots. He passed it to Adara who stored it in a sack on her hip.

"Chiron taught you this?" Adara asked, once more wondering over his teaching, how atypical it had been. She recalled asking who Chiron was long ago when Patroclus and Achilles told stories in his tent late at night. Everything they had learned from the centaur was valuable and unrivaled. Warriors in Lyrnessus began training at twelve, ten if they seemed promising, and they spent hours each day wrestling, practicing javelin, and hitting each other with practice clubs. There had been none of the fine fluid movements Achilles and the Myrmidons possessed, and none of the practical side.

"He taught us much. Fitness for our bodies, herbs to heal, stretching patterns he learned across the sea so that we may be quick and limber on the field. It was even he who taught me the lyre and pan flute, although I must admit I find the instrument irksome."

"How many people train with him?" Adara asked, unable to picture a child Achilles walking through a mountain wood beside a chestnut haired centaur. The idea was to foreign, and picture Achilles as a child was something she always struggled with. Achilles shrugged, but Adara knew enough to see the gleam of pride in his eyes.

"He hand selects his students. Many kings send their sons, but few are chosen. I trained with him beginning when I was seven summers – he has never trained another student for as long."

"And Patroclus was there?" Adara asked, immediately regretting the question when she saw the odd ripple that seemed to roll down Achilles spine.

"Yes, he was there," Achilles murmured, kneeling by the edge of the riverbank to look for some plant that only he would find. "He came to live with us when he was very young, and soon after I left for training upon Mount Pelion. My father requested him to stay in Pythia two years before he sent him to use on the mountain, he was very small when he was younger," Achilles explained, turning and giving her a watery-eyed wince that she suspected was supposed to be a smile.

"I was Chiron's favorite student, in the end, even though he trained Diomedes and Ajax and others. It annoyed Patroclus to no end – people tended to like him better," Achilles continued, reaching out for a small mushroom Adara had not seen growing at the edge of the water, nestled between mossy river stones. He handed it to her, Adara attempting to control her face so as not to show the guilt that gnawed at her stomach.

"I can't imagine why he'd pick you," she said, laying a hand on his shoulder and giving him a playful push before getting to her feet. Achilles too stood, the glint of starlight once more in his summer blue eyes. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he nuzzled his face into her neck, pressing his lips to the skin just behind her ear.

"Because I was the best fighter in all of Achaea, which meant he could spend time teaching me the things he enjoyed," Achilles said, his voice seeming to fill every inch of her body as she sank into his grasp. They picked no more herbs that afternoon.

And when they were not learning from one another, they enjoyed each other. Achilles was more public with his affections for her than he had ever been in the past – Adara knew it was because there was no point in wasting what little time they had left together, and so she forced these thoughts from her mind.

After dinner, instead of returning to his tent with Adara as he had always done, Achilles sat on the beach with his men around the fire and pulled Adara into his lap, listening at they told stories from home so familiar to each other that they knew each tale.

"Eudoras, if you tell that damned story about your wife running naked through the hills one more time I swear on Zeus I'll cut your balls off," Automedon yelled, rousing a chorus of laughter. Eudoras smiled and shook his head, the dark black curls of his hair gleaming in the firelight.

"Aye, at least I've had a woman Automedon. I'm sure the girls can tell if you've got a worm or a hole hiding under that skirt!"

The conversation was lewd, but Adara found it liberating in a way that women were almost never able to speak to one another. Beneath her, Achilles began to absentmindedly run his hands along her side.

"Achilles," a man from the far side of the fire called out, "perhaps you and Adara could provide a practical demonstration of Eudoras' tale?" Adara felt her mouth fall open, but Achilles only nodded in the direction of the voice, pulling Adara closer to his chest in a sign that clearly threatened every man there. Looking up at her, Achilles lifted a hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

"I think I'll save Adara running naked through the woods for my own enjoyment," he said in a voice just loud enough for the men to hear. Adara felt heat begin to bloom in her stomach and she had to fight the blush that was creeping up her neck.

"Fair enough, I wouldn't want to share either," another voice called. Achilles smiled again, but it no longer reached his eyes and Adara felt his hand tighten around her waist.

And through it all, she watched him. The way his smiles slid easily onto his face, the rapidity with which he could recover from moments of sadness, his eagerness to learn and be with his men. The many masks he wore seemed to blur together, and often Adara did not know if she was speaking with the uptight and proud Prince or the gentle and mysterious lover that he was. He was, she slowly realized, the man he would have been had war not dominated his life. Had he not chosen glory she thought, a streak of bitterness dancing across the back of her tongue. It made her want to curse the fates for forcing the choice upon him, a young man of seven and ten summers who knew nothing of what he was being asked to sacrifice. He would have been a good king, she knew as she watched him during those twelve days. And yet knowing what had become of him, the way he had been forced to prioritize bloodlust and murder and the way it had altered his mind, she would not have him change it, for it would mean they would never have met.

And if that was wrong, she did not care.