Thank you for the reviews and follows and favorites. If you are well versed in the plot of the Iliad, then you know what is coming up. Writing these things gets harder and harder because I want motivations to be sound and loose ends to be tied up. Please let me know what you think and thanks for being here!

Chapter 43

Adara did not think she had ever known pain until she watched Achilles walk away from her the next morning, his hair as brilliant as the god beaten armor her bore. It was a sharp ache, an agony in every corner of her being, pulling her nerve from nerve, limb from limb. Breathing was a labor, thinking exhausting. What have I done to deserve this she wanted to beg of the gods.

They did not say goodbye, for what could you say to one half of your being? Should Achilles fall in battle, they would both be doomed to wait, incomplete until at last the gods felt it was an apt time to reunite them under Hades domain. Waking beside him, Adara was unsure if he had ever been more beautiful, and when he smiled at her, excited to meet his doom, everything inside her had collapsed.

They dressed one another that morning, like every morning. As if Achilles was not throwing himself into the pits of Tartarus. And when they were finished, he had brushed his lips across hers, soft as the fluttering of flower petals, and then turned to his men and melted into their midst where Adara could not hold him and force the life to remain inside his warriors shell. He had asked for her blessing to die, to die, and she had given it willingly. Watching the Myrmidon's march away, the echo of their cries thundering in her ears, she knew she would never forgive herself for it, but nor would she have forgiven herself if she had denied him.

But he had not died that day, returning to their camp thrashing and raging like the tempest he encompassed, his eyes red as coals. She did not admonish him this time, allowed him to cry into her shoulder, pressed her lip to his temple as he moaned of his denied glory. To have lived so long for one purpose, and to be deprived of it? She did not voice her own pain, there was no furthering the same conversation they seemed to have every day. She would lose him, what more was there too it?

And when he stilled, he became reticent, watching her clean his armor without a flicker of emotion. Adara felt transported back almost a year, recalling those silent afternoons when she had acquainted herself with him, with his many masks, with his singular intensity for her. How different things had been, yet how similar. It seemed inevitable, looking back, that she would grow to love him. With Antilochus sitting and watching the two of them, she could almost convince herself that she was the same girl who had stepped off the ship from Lyrnessus, the same girl who had cried when Briseis betrayed her.

"Who did she fight today," Adara asked Achilles, trying to picture Penthesilea, but her mind conjuring nothing but smoke and the distinct clang of metal upon metal.

"The Cretans," he groaned, laying back upon their bed and staring up at the ceiling. Despite it all, she smiled to herself, taken by how childish he could seem. Antilochus brushed his hair out of his face, perhaps shocked that Adara would inquire after Achilles would be killer, his eyes fliting between the two of them as they spoke. Poor boy, he has not lived in the shadow of death long enough. She wondered if he would keep Achilles quarters with her when her lover passed, or if she would be sent back to the women's quarters. A worry for another time, but the thought comforted her. He was a gentle man, and quiet, and he would not attempt to silence her tears.

"And how did Idomeneus fare against her?" She replied, reaching for a fresh rag and beginning upon Achilles shield, the surface of which was sticky and black with blood. Even after all this time, she was forced to still her breath for a moment to stop from retching.

"Like a dog," Achilles spat, sitting up once more. "She had her way with him – the Cretans lost six men before Apollo had even begun his descent."

"Well, perhaps tomorrow," Adara replied absentmindedly as she scrubbed at a particularly baked on stain of blood, her lower lip clenched between her teeth as she concentrated. Then, as if struck by lightning, the realization of what she had said coursed through her, and in complete dismay she began to laugh.

It was ridiculous and nonsensical, and yet what else could she do but laugh in the face of her misery, for the only other option was to be overcome. Grief is a powerful thing to let run uninhibited through your mind Odysseus had once warned her. If he had been with them now, he would have laughed alongside her, the crow's feet in the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. Instead, Achilles smiled, one of his full, gleaming, otherworldly grins that made Adara feel like she was falling and flying all at once. Her mind only returned to the ground when at last Antilochus broke the spell.

"You are both mad, aren't you?" He asked, his tone both fearful and amazed.

"Agape," Adara simply responded, the boundary between the present and her memories blurring the longer she gazed into Achilles summer blue eyes.

"Agape," he agreed, and in that moment, Antilochus fell away, leaving only the two of them, hearts beating across the room. She did not need to close the distance, to say a word – filled once more with that feeling that made her ribs expand as if she would burst. It was pain, but one that was oh so delicious to wield.

At last Adara's sanity seemed to return, only strung to her consciousness by a thread, her heart racing in a way that made her flush with embarrassment. Focusing once more on the shield in her hands, she organized her thoughts. The demise of her world would not mean the failure of her duties, not while he was here to see her fall.

"Achilles, go join the men and call for dinner. I will be along soon, but if you don't leave we will never make the meal," she said, smiling down at her hands because she knew to meet his eyes would be a fatal mistake. As if she had a second set of eyes, she knew Achilles smiled once more before getting to his feet, tossing his wine cup into the sand. Adara watched him leave, unashamed to admire the gentle grace of his movements, even just in walking.

At last left in quiet to her work, Adara set to do one final scouring of Achilles shield, searching for telltale spots of brown and crimson she had missed against the gold. To her right Antilochus rearranged himself in his seat, uncertain whether he was to follow the warrior or to stay behind with Adara.

"Thank you for your patience with us," Adara said, turning to glance at him and give him a weak smile. "I do not suspect it will be needed much longer." If Antilochus was shocked by her honesty, he wisely did not show it.

"How long have you been amongst the Myrmidons?" He asked, his question taking her by surprise, but perhaps not unwarranted after watching mine and Achilles' declarations.

"I am approaching the end of my second summer," Adara admitted, surprised by how long it had been, how short it felt.

"So little time," he murmured, and although he was only a year or two older than Adara, he suddenly seemed much wiser. This time, it was Adara's turn not to show the pain in his words.

"So little time…" she echoed, assenting to him.

"And it has always been like…this?" He asked, the corner of his lip twitching as he suppressed a laugh. Adara felt herself smile slightly, busying her hands with cleaning.

"No, there was Patroclus first. Achilles hated me for it," she said, wiping down the carved golden horns of a bull with a strip of linen. "Hated how weak it made him feel. I think it was the only occasion he was denied something he wanted, and you see how graceful he is in loss."

"What changed?" Antilochus asked. Adara suspected she heard tones of shock in his voice.

"I did," she replied. "I came here a servant, a slave. He opened the world to me, but when he took it back, I found that I didn't want it without him. He made me selfish, but he made me more." At last finished with her work, she looked up at the young man, his forehead furrowed in obvious confusion. How to tell someone that you found the part of yourself you would sacrifice everything for? Antilochus clearly had no life partner, seeing as he spent almost every waking minute with either Achilles or herself. Yet he was handsome, in an innocent way, and after serving for several months by Achilles side, he was as good as promised a wealthy match when the war ended. Nestor must surely be arranging meetings with the brides of Achaea even now she thought, smiling at him. Perhaps in ten years he will know what it is Achilles and I felt.

"Adara!" She heard a voice bellow across the sand, its pitch both commanding and needy in the way only Achilles' voice could sound.

"What will happen to you, when he is gone," Antilochus asked, offering her his hand and pulling Adara to her feet.

"It's best we're not late for dinner – Achilles is unpleasant when he's hungry," she offered in response, swallowing the sharpness that had blossomed behind her eyes and giving Antilochus' hand a slight squeeze before leading him out into the night.

{{{}}}

That night when he held her, Achilles felt more desperate than he recalled being in many years. Concealing his face in her shoulder, Achilles attempted to steady his breath, grounding himself to her for what could be the last time. Perhaps the gods will send her swiftly to follow me, he thought, knowing that it was a twisted and perverse fantasy to hope that Adara's death might quickly come after his own. Yet it does not change the fact that I want it.

Under his hands, her body was warmth and tenderness and maybe in another life they would have been allowed to grow old together. But not in this. In this, we must wait for eternity.

{{{}}}

Odysseus saw the final blow coming, the glistening of the blade, the wild scream of battle, and the undeniable spray of crimson as the weapon imbedded itself into flesh. The air filled with the groan of ending, as if the battle had been only a children's horse race, not a fight to the death.

"Achilles! Achilles! Achilles!" The men around him cried, but Odysseus had no attention for anything accept the back of the golden clad figure before him. Staggering forward, Odysseus shoved two nameless Achaeans out of the way, leaning upon his spear.

Here in the inner circle where the battle had raged, silence reigned. Achilles body visibly shook, the hand upon his spear was white and muscles knotted like ship's rigging. Odysseus wondered if he would fall, thundering to the ground like the crashing of an ancient oak. Do god's fall, or are they summoned to Olympus he wondered.

Before the Myrmidon Prince, a body at last crumpled, breaking the spell, the figure of Penthesilea hitting the land without ceremony.

She was, regretfully, not dead. The sounds of bubbling, gasping breaths could be heard as the quiet seemed to expand from the epicenter where they stood. Odysseus watched as Achilles drove the tip of Old Pelion into the ground before kneeling beside the woman's head. Her body was still fearsome, even teetering on mortality, and when she wrapped a bloody hand around Achilles forearm, something within the Ithacan shifted out of place.

From Achilles' new angle, Odysseus could at last see his friend's face. He was unnaturally pale, the scars on his arms standing to attention like white sentinels. The blank look he wore would have been soothing if not for the violent crimson of his eyes. Achilles hands, somehow miraculously gentle unclasped her helmet, leaving his sword where he had wedged it – in her breastplate.

No one could hear what she said, her rasping breaths drowning out the echoes of the words that followed. They are meant only for him Odysseus knew, observing Achilles face which hovered mere spaces above hers, as if they were about to kiss. Two warriors sharing a moment of peace upon the battlefield, one dying, the other longing for it. The irony was not lost upon Odysseus. Around the circle the men stirred uneasily, many warding off the signs of evil.

"Why doesn't he end it?" One asked.

Others said far less pleasant items. About her body. About their beds.

Penthesilea coughed suddenly, blood bubbling viscous and chilling from her mouth to splatter across Achilles' face, yet if he noticed he showed no sign. "Glory," he heard her snort, the one word seeming to cause her intense agony. Of course that is the fixation of his mind, Odysseus thought, eyeing Achilles hands which were clawing the earth beside the Queen's rapidly diminishing body.

It was a shame, Odysseus thought, switching the hand that held his spear and rocking his weight onto the other leg, that Achilles was impatient. The murder of Penthesilea would add to his honor when he died – she was a worthy foe. And yet, Achilles had never been known for his serenity. He wants his glory now, as it was promised. The gods had funny ways of keeping their words.

At last Penthesilea stilled, the hand which had been clutching Achilles' arm falling to the ground with a sickening thud. The Amazonian women sent up a cry of lament, their howling like a pack of wolves. The hairs on the back of Odysseus' arms stood on end. Without thought, memories of Penelope floated to the forefront of his mind, her laughter echoing in his head. No he commanded himself. Her memory will not be sullied by the battlefield, and he shook himself, once again focusing on the man before him.

Achilles was shaking, his entire body vibrating like the branch of some tree caught in a gale. After some time, the Ithacan came to realize Achilles was crying. His forehead fell to her shoulder, his hands closing around her arm, as if he was going to attempt to rouse her – as if they could switch their lots.

On the far side of the circle Diomedes appeared, shoving several men out of his way. He was followed by several of his captains, each of them covered in a fine layer of dust. If Achilles noticed their approach, he did not show it.

Above them the sun moved, but here on the battlefield no one seemed capable of breaking the circle. Knowing that Achilles would have to give the body back, he sucked in a deep breath, preparing himself for Achilles' ever present rage when he spoke. But he never got the chance.

"Why's he weeping?" A crude voice asked, and glancing around, Odysseus' keen eyes immediately landed upon the tall, lankly soldier beside Diomedes.

Thersites was well known upon the Greek camp. Brash, outspoken, and Diomedes favorite captain, he was accustomed to speaking his mind in Argos' camp. It was another thing all together, however, to address Achilles in the full swing of his might.

"She's dead? Why cry? Shouldn't have taken him three days anyways," Thersites complained. Beside him Diomedes chuckled and shook his head, but did not silence his companion.

"Will you take her armor, Achilles?" The captain asked louder, suddenly aware that the entire circle was listening to him, emboldened by the opportunity. "I don't think it's quite your size."

Odysseus was reminded of watching a child who had been instructed not to speak fight against his metaphorical gag as he examined Achilles. The warrior stood, the shaking in his limbs all the more pronounced by the stillness of those watching. Tempest blue eyes did not even turn to face Thersites, but Odysseus could see the telltale flex of the jaw, the flash of maroon in his gaze. The chill of fear ran through him.

"Antilochus?" Achilles asked, glancing though the men for his counterpart. The Nestor's son shuffled forward, immediately at attention, reaching out to take Achilles helmet from him before the man had even moved. His spear he wedged into the edge of his silver chariot, and with a look of utter revulsion, he withdrew his sword from Penthesilea's breastplate. The squelching noise was muffled by a spike in the Amazonian keening, and Odysseus found himself blinking back a stray tear at their grief.

"Take the men back to camp," he said, now ordering Eudoras. "I will join you shortly. Tell Adara that we will dine with the men tonight." Where are you going Achilles Odysseus wanted to ask, but he held his tongue.

Immediately there was a flurry of activity as the ever obedient Myrmidon men surged to life. Their whispers could be heard, dulling the cries of the women soldiers, followed by a loud chuckle as several men watched Antilochus stumble into Achilles chariot. In his haste to obey, he almost dropped Achilles' armor, but he recovered it with a grace that hinted at his teacher. Achilles watched them depart without a flicker of emotion.

"Your new shadow isn't as smart as the old," Thersites called out, again breaking the silence. Behind Achilles, the Amazon women bent to retrieve their queen, making their own exit towards the gates of Troy. I suspect that is the last time we shall see them Odysseus mused, torn between watching their departure and the tension that was building before him.

"What's the new one's name? Doesn't matter. You've got him well trained," Thersites cajoled. Slowly, so gentle that only a trained eye would notice, Achilles left hand formed into a fist.

There were stories that children of Achaea were taught growing up alongside the tales of the gods. Fables to teach them to obey their parents, sacrifice during growing season, die for one's country, and on and on. Odysseus had always remembered one lesson on time, on its passing effects. His mother had told it too him often.

If one was to bring a cauldron of water to boil and then throw in a frog, the creature would leap out. Even animals can sense immediate change, see the danger before them. Yet if the frog was placed into cool water slowly brought to boil, it would realize its peril too late and be burned alive.

Who is the frog and who is the cauldron Odysseus wondered as he watched Thersites slowly needling Achilles.

"Yes, well trained, clearly" Thersites echoed, and his tone dropped dangerously. The fear that had slid into Odysseus' heart grew unbearable, as if his chest was being compressed by stones. "You had the last one well trained too, but that made sense. We all knew you like to share Patroclus and that bed slave at the same time –"

Odysseus stepped back as Achilles lunged, throwing his arms out to protect the Ithacan men beside him.

{{{}}}

There was blood on his hands, although technically it was Penthesilea's, a tacky substance that had dried slightly since her passing. Yet some of the crimson coat of Achilles hands now decorated the neck of Thersites. Looking down at the body from where he stood above it, Achilles did not remember moving. Only the flash of red, the fighter's intuition, and the resounding snap that had ended the dreadful nagging.

Achilles could feel his heart thundering in his chest, every breath like a dagger to his lungs. Blood pumped through every vessel of his body at the speed of Hermes winged feet, and yet the only thing missing within him was remorse. No, that is not true. You have remorse for Penthesileahe reminded himself, again his brain playing over and over the shock that had tingled up his arm as he imbedded his sword in her body. Should have been me, should have been me, should have been me… She had been the greatest he ever fought, greater even than Hector. Hector, who had stood and faced him and died like a King, possessed with some moral sense of right and wrong. Stupid man, Achilles thought, admiring the angle at which Thersites' head lay, oddly discordant with the rest of his body.

Penthesilea held none of that. She relished in killing in a way that spiked Achilles jealousy. The gods had given them the same gifts, but cursed him to enough empathy to regret it. I have watched you these two days, I am better than you she had said, explaining why it was not until the third day they met in battle. And she was. There was no pretense, no mockery of sportsmanship. She was smaller than most of her opponents, and made up for it in ruthlessness. She had been better than him, but Achilles had been stronger and the reach of his arm farther. Now she is dead. Again that sadness for her, for the loss of her wildness, her talent filled him. In his chest his heart beat on traitorously, as if to say I am still here.

But no, there was no remorse for Thersites. No remorse for his own blood countryman. They had dined together in Diomedes' camp, poured libations side by side. Yet Patroclus' name had hardly left the idiot's mouth before he lay dead at Achilles feet, his blood but not his blood on Achilles hands.

Around him, there seemed to be an ocean's worth of activity. Men were shouting, Odysseus was pointing his spear at someone, and Achilles vaguely could see from his periphery that Diomedes was being held back by several men. Are we being attacked? Then with a blow to his gut, Achilles comprehended it was he who had caused the commotion.

"TRAITOR!" Diomedes bellowed. "You deny your country! Greece! Traitor!"

Turning to face the king of Argos, Achilles recognized the telltale signs of grief. It impressed upon him in that moment that he had forgotten others could feel pain, small and simple as they were. Ichor ran in Achilles veins, emotions far beyond what a normal man could comprehend or bear. Diomedes was practically foaming at the mouth, the chords of his neck exposed, face red. Thersites was his captain, his friend Achilles reminded himself. He still felt no remorse. Instead, the cold cloak of exhaustion which had grown to coat him like a second skin since Patroclus' death encased him. He wanted to see Adara, he wanted to rest. I want to die.

"Diomedes!" Odysseus yelled in return. "Diomedes, calm yourself. Achilles will have to pay the price in ritual purification. You cannot have his head."

"And why not? He's supposed to die anyways," the Argive wailed, his madness receding slightly to anguish.

"You know the god's wishes," Odysseus replied, stepping between Achilles and Diomedes direct line of sight.

"They promised him glory – I'll give the rat the glory of my spear."

Achilles vaguely registered that words like these would have sent him into a frenzy only a few moons prior. Everything has changed now. Making up his mind, doomed as he was to continue living as a pawn of the gods' whims, he spoke.

"I will undergo the purification, Odysseus." His words were soft but they carried, and the Ithacan turned to face him, his brown curls damp with sweat. There was a calculating look in his eyes, but he only nodded and turned back to Diomedes. Achilles did not know why he had agreed. For a purification to be sound, it must be meant. I do not regret it. But it was easier this way, and Achilles was tired.

"The purification, Diomedes. Achilles has agreed, will that suffice to appease the wrong done do you?" The Ithacan asked.

"Why should he be made an exception for? I deserve a blood price – he is a prince, I am a King. Give me his head or his woman!" Diomedes screamed. Achilles felt himself smiling at Diomedes words. Someone had already tried to take Adara from him and it had resulted in Patroclus' death. If Diomedes tried, Achilles would kill him, forgetting their many years of friendship.

"You know you may not have those things Diomedes," Odysseus replied, his usually calm voice slipping into aggravation. "The purification or you will you will go on slighted. Achilles has agreed."

At last Diomedes seemed to deflate, understanding that there would be no other option. Hanging his head, he at last stopped tugging at the men restraining him and stood tall.

"I agree, but you shall accompany us," Diomedes said, glaring at Odysseus as if he was the one who killed Thersites. "We leave today, Prince." Diomedes said with a sneer, glancing around the man between them so his brown eyes met with Achilles' summer. Achilles nodded, turning to return to camp.

Adara was not waiting for him in their tents, but instead laughing with Antilochus at the head of the table while women in blue chitons busied themselves preparing the meal. It had been a long walk back to the camp alone where word clearly had not reached his men. I do not regret it. It should have been me…

"Achilles," Adara said, her voice soft like rushing wind, bringing him back to countless nights between them, to strolls through the wood, to laughter.

"I killed an Argive man – Odysseus and Diomedes will travel with me to Lesbos for ritual purification," he explained bluntly. Antilochus' face paled. Adara's broke.

He saw an entire host of emotions pass through her golden eyes. First alarm, then the downturn of sadness, and at last the tightening of anger. It was a sign of how far they had come that she did not rebuke him.

"Antilochus. I believe it would be best if you returned to your father's camp while I am away. I do not want my actions to color your character," Achilles added, addressing the young man who responded only with a curt nod.

"You will need anointing," Adara said, getting to her feet.

Only a short while later they found themselves in the Ithacan camp. Achilles skin was coated in olive oil and rosemary and goat's fat, ash layered on top of it all. Despite the slick mask upon his skin, Adara held tightly to his hand, her mouth pressed into a thin line. He loved her, and he was tired. The hollow roost in his chest where Patroclus had resided seemed to yawn in the setting sun, calling to him from the underworld.

"Achilles, it's time," Odysseus said as the final crate of food was carried on board. The ship was manned by Ithacan men, a neutral group between the insulted Argive and Myrmidon camps. Adara gave his hand a squeeze but said nothing.

"Forgive me?" He asked her, suddenly needing to know if he had pushed even Adara too far.

"It is already forgiven," she responded tonelessly, but her eyes warmed slightly. A burden Achilles did not know he had been carrying seemed to lift.

"Till the next," he murmured and then he let her hand go, following Diomedes up the plank and onto the ship.