With an international pandemic there's nothing to do but write! This chapter is a bit shorter, but I'm thinking there are around 3-5 more left. Can't believe it's all truly wrapping up but so grateful to everyone here until the end. Thank you for the comments - please keep them coming I LOVE knowing what you are thinking. Thanks for being here and happy reading Xx

Chapter 44

Adara's life, she mused as she stood along the shore with waves lapping at her toes, had been characterized by waiting. She had waited upon Briseis during her time as a handmaiden, waited for Patroclus to love her, for Achilles to forgive her for her choice, for them to be reunited, for him to die. She was better suited to patience than her lover after years of servitude, but it did not change the fact that the past two nights and day between had been achingly, maddeningly slow. Beside her Melitta and Eudoras stood, searching the horizon for the familiar black mast of Achilles ship.

Further down the line, another figure stood waiting. Briseis was slightly tanner than she had been when she was the queen of Lyrnessus – months of outdoor toil had finally seen to her porcelain skin. Her raven-black hair had been pulled up into a hasty knot on top of her head and tied with leather cord, the wind stirring stray tendrils that escaped down her back. She was thinner than she had once been, and more drawn, arms pressed against her chest as if in constant supplication. Green eyes that had once burned with smugness were now dull.

She had returned to camp a few weeks before, slipping without a word into the routine duties of the Myrmidon women. Adara had heard from Melitta over long walks or during baths in the surf of her internment amongst the Myceneans. Agamemnon did not touch her, but she was not well kept. Adara remembered her shame as if a distant nightmare when she felt like she had betrayed Briseis and Lyrnessus through her, the voracious anger seeing her in Achilles' bed. Now nothing remained, emotionlessly Adara inspected her frail form, perhaps only the gentlest rousing of pity within her. Who was she to judge a woman trying to claim power in her own life. Am I not doing just that through my position beside Achilles? No, Briseis' affairs had been shameful at one time to Adara, but she could not condemn a woman who had been sold off to a distant king like a flock of sheep from finding happiness.

Beside her, Phoenix arrived, panting slightly in his old age. His paper thin voice called her name with familiarity, and together they waited as the once had for the Myrmidons to return from a raid.

There was a ripple of movement when at last a black speck became visible on the horizon, finally growing into the recognizable shape of a sail. The tension that always lived in Adara when he wasn't with her faded, her breath releasing low like a whistle. Taking Melitta's hand, she gave it a small squeeze.

In her other hand she held a Papyrus scroll, careful not to crush the delicate material in her anxious grasp. It had been delivered that morning by one of Agamemnon's messengers. Adara was thankful she had been taught to read in Briseis' palace in order to handle royal correspondence. Its words were burned into her memory.

Father,

The note began with this word, a claim to birthright and heritage. To glory. Adara knew the wonder that must have been felt when written. Achilles had once told her they had never communicated, not even through writing.

I send word with this messenger that reserve forces of Myrmidons, myself at their head, shall be arriving upon the shores of Troy in a fortnight. We have made the appropriate sacrifices to Zeus and Hermes, and ask that you do the same – for the protection of our makers.

Till our meeting,

Phyrrus

He signed under the common name given to him by his mother's people. A sign of rebellion against the father who had named himand never claimed him, a sign of respect for his mother, a sign to Adara that he was not as mature as he hoped to seem. It was short, the writing plain and unrevealing, but then again, what could one say to a man you had never met? Who's reputation preceded all of Greece?

She recalled hints of Achilles' that he did not believe that he would live to see his son. She smiled, thinking of the short span of a fortnight. Only one half cycle of the moon. The gods were not so cruel or quick as that. He had denied death for ten years, a fortnight was nothing but a blink to the immortals. It would be a relief to give him good news.

The ship crawled forward, at last towering directly above them as the grunts of rowing men reached their ears. Beached, soldiers began flinging their bodies over the railings, landing with splashes in the water or resounding thuds in the sand.

Achilles leapt like a mountain cat, as if soaring through the air was another thing as natural to him as war. Immediately he had eyes for no other but her, his strides purposeful as he took her in his arms and kissed her. She allowed him to tilt her head back, desperate to feel his sturdiness under the pads of her fingers, desperate for the way only he could move every inch of her being as if she was on fire and drowning all at once. When he released her, she felt as if she was floating a few inches off the ground, in a liminal space between ecstasy and joy. What would it have been like to love someone normal? Painfully average instead of the wild mosaic that was the Prince of Pythia. It was unfathomable to her.

Achilles must have sensed the trail of her thought or seen a glimmer in her eye for he returned her gaze with one that suggested a return to their bed soon.

In fact, the pair went immediately to their tent after leaving the beach, layers of fabric falling away between them as their hands wandered familiar trails. She would never tire of discovering him or the way he said her name in the throes of passion or even the tenderness afterward. In these moments he was hers, without sharing him with his army or his fate.

"I did not truly mean the apology," Achilles told her afterward, his fingers trailing up and down her arms. It was one of the things that made her love him, his irreverence towards the gods, his brutal honesty.

"Will the gods punish you?"

"What more can they take?" Achilles countered, and Adara did not answer. They could take her, but seeing as Achilles was destined to lose her, it seemed irrelevant.

"And Diomedes?" She probed.

"He seems appeased. Both he and Odysseus agreed to come to our camp for final meal tonight," Achilles informed her.

"You could have warned me," Adara frowned.

"Consider this your warning," he teased, tightening the arm that was wrapped around her so she could not leave to fulfill her camp-wide duties. Adara bit back a smile, his constant need for her making her heady with power.

"And Neoptolemus?" She asked, inquiring after the letter he had tossed aside after one reading without comment. Achilles tempest blue eyes dulled for a moment and then it was gone.

"What am I supposed to do with a son?"

"He is a man now, Achilles," Adara admonished. "He has asked for nothing but ritual sacrifices, which you would have given to any voyaging Myrmidon." She knew the truth in her words and could see that it annoyed Achilles.

Achilles having a son was one of those things that reminded Adara that he had lived a life outside of the one they shared. When Patroclus had lived, this knowledge had been constant. Tales of Peleus' court, of adventures with Chiron, of meetings with his mother, but now these stories seemed like a faded relic. Adara, who had never enjoyed the idea of sharing Achilles, acidly considered that soon she would be face to face with this living, breathing truth.

"Where does a child fit into the path I have chosen? He brings me no glory or honor," Achilles countered, his voice stoic as he considered these things.

"Meet him and we will determine if he is worthy of your name, of carrying on your beacon. There is nothing he can do to sully the feats you have accomplished here in Troy," Adara reminded him, placing a hand around his neck and pulling him in to feather kisses along his jaw.

When at last they left the tent it was only midday, the camp alive with the intersecting paths of Myrmidons out to train or to hunt or to fetch food. Adara parted from Achilles to find Melitta, to call for an entire roast of meat for the visiting kings and to aid the women in their chores.

He nodded absentmindedly as she left him, his mind focused on some far off thought, but whether it brought him happiness or anguish she did not know. He seems better Adara told herself, recalling the dull way in which he informed her that he would be traveling to Lesbos. That he'd killed a Greek. He has always worn masks, even I cannot be certain anymore. She knew his exhaustion ran deep, the burden of death and guilt weighting upon him like a mountain. Yet the barest flicker of hope managed to burn within her. Perhaps he will meet his son, another fortnight together. If it was foolish to believe, Adara did not linger on it.

Lanassa helped to prepare Adara that night, enrobing her in a chiton of deep, Tyrian purple. Set against the gold of her eyes and bangles, she knew she had never looked the part of Achilles lover more, and she glowed with the certainty. The old woman's hands were soft as they braided Adara's hair, singing under her breath songs of harvest and motherhood. When she finished, Adara swept Lanassa into a hug, recalling long nights sleeping beside her in the women's quarters.

"You have grown different since you arrived here, shy, silent thing you were," Lanassa said, holding her at arms distance to observe her handiwork. "But you have the same heart. Be sure to keep it." Adara felt the point of Lanassa's fingers pressing into her breastbone, her words both warming and chilling at the same time. With a kiss to the camp mother's forehead, Adara departed to find Achilles, trying not to consider what would have to happen to her to harden her in such a way. Losing him she knew, but she could not dwell on it or else be lost.

The meal was fragrant with the scent of rosemary and burning fat. Libations were poured to the gods as women circled the tables like moths to light. Odysseus and Diomedes received the choice cuts, Achilles and Phoenix served next. Adara missed the now familiar presence of Antilochus, his wide eyes and open ears making her feel heard even when sometimes she said nothing at all, but he was dining in his father's camp, catching up on all that had elapsed since he'd come to train with the Myrmidons.

"To Thersites," Diomedes called out, standing and lifting his wine cup above his head. "And to Patroclus. May the ones we love never truly leave us."

From the corner of her eye she saw Achilles jaw tighten. It was a final jab by Diomedes, perhaps subconscious, to compare Thersites to the hero of the Achaean forces, but Achilles reigned himself in. Adara drank long to Patroclus' memory, and to Thersites too because she knew Achilles would not.

"I believe we have seen the last of the Amazonians," Odysseus said, tearing apart a piece of bread and serving himself with it. "Priam must have wept upon the Trojan walls when you cut her down."

"She was the best I have ever fought – I also wept," Achilles replied, and there was a factuality in his voice that gave Adara pause.

"You only say that because she was beautiful," Odysseus chimed.

"Beautiful in her skill, but now she is dead."

Adara's stomach tightened and under the table she crossed her legs. Jealousy rarely found her where Achilles was concerned, but since his declaration that he was ready to accept death, Adara had found herself jealous of Patroclus' ghost who Achilles would leave her for. And now I must be jealous of another who is dead. He had wept for her, or maybe he had wept for himself and for the talent of ending another life? Maybe both.

"Priam will have to hope that Ares himself will join them on the field tomorrow. Paris is the senior Prince now, and he's as useless on the battlefield as a sparrow," Diomedes grunted through a mouthful of lamb. Achilles nodded his head in agreement.

It was conversations like these that made her miss Patroclus the most. The way he could draw her into conversations where she did not share the language, the rhythm of the story. Diomedes always spoke of war when he came to visit, like a child that had never outgrown chariot races and competition.

"Priam will be even more disappointed when there are two Myrmidon Princes upon the battlefield," Odysseus interjected, looking directly into Achilles summer blue eyes. Adara saw the clench of his teeth, but again he restrained himself. His purification has subdued him so. Adara was unsure how to process it.

"Neoptolemus arrives in a fortnight," Achilles informed their friend.

"I know." His eyes twinkled with his response, canny in his all-knowingness without explaining where he had gleaned this information. "Will you host the camp in honor of his arrival?"

"Have I ever honored any other man? Doesn't ask questions below your intelligence, Odysseus," Achilles scoffed, taking what Adara deemed was an additionally long sip from his wine cup.

"Yes but this is your son, your own blood! Surely you are proud of him?"

"Proud?" Achilles asked, setting down his empty glass. "I will be proud only once I have seen him and the creature his mother has raised him to be. She would not allow my father to take him. He has not been raised in the Myrmidon tradition."

Achilles said the word mother not with spite, but as if to distance himself from the idea of Neoptolemus. As if to say he is not mine, do not make me claim him. Adara understood that fear lived somewhere deep in Achilles soul where his child was concerned. Of repeating the negligence of his own father (which he had, but Adara could never speak of it), of passing on his unique curse of ending lives to another human.

"And you Adara? You will as good as have a son soon," Odysseus continued. Achilles turned to look at her, the angle of his brow upturned as if he had never seen her before.

"Neoptolemus is closer to my own age than to Achilles – I will never have a son, Odysseus," Adara explained, sipping from her own watered down wine. The flash of pain across Achilles' face for her barren womb consoled the grief in her, but the Ithacan across from here merely shrugged.

"More dates please," Achilles called to one of the women, pointing towards Adara's empty plate. He knew they were her favorite.

"Achilles, perhaps we will go pick herbs tomorrow?" Adara asked. His responding smile was radiant, as if the sun and the moon both had bestowed their light upon the demigod. They both knew there would be no herb picking, but it would be nice to get away from camp and to talk of their lives before Troy and their moments together.

"Need I remind you that you agreed to a spear training session for my men," Diomedes interjected. Achilles summer blue eyes never left Adara's as he cocked his head to the side.

"That can be rearranged," he countered.

"Selfish pig," Diomedes grunted, taking a large bite of bread and shaking his head slightly. Yes he is Adara thought, her chest glowing with that heady sense of power only he could give her. Selfish for me.

"When will Antilochus return to us?" Adara questioned, unable to deny that she missed his owl like presence fluttering behind their duo.

"I sent word to Nestor this afternoon that I would like him to accompany the Myrmidons into battle tomorrow. His training has progressed but there is not point in discontinuing his training now that I have undergone purification," Achilles said. His mouth fell into a thin line, and to Adara's well trained gaze she saw the familiar flicker of exhaustion run across his face. There was a chill in her heart. He seems so changed having undergone the cleansing. Another voice in the corner of her mind nagged one purification will not erase the years' worth of men killed at his hand.

They finished the rest of their meal in silence, Diomedes occasionally yelling at some of his men to recount tales of battle and glory, Odysseus sneaking bites of food from Adara's plate. When silence started to grow around them, Achilles stood and adjourned to the fireside. His lyre was brought to him for the first time since Patroclus' passing, and seated in the sand beside him Adara allowed her mind to wander as his fingers danced across the strings.

How cruel that his could not continue. That he would never live to play for the halls of Pythia once more, his own tempest eyed children laying at his feet as Adara did now. She did not hide her tears as the music reverberated around and within her. Glancing around the men, she recognized their own faces of sadness as they grappled with demons that plagued each and every Achaean soldier. There was some surprise when she saw Odysseus' own look of agony, the usually playful Ithacan overcome with an emotion Adara could not name. Perhaps he thinks of Penelope? His serious gray eyes were focused upon Achilles as if the Myrmidon was an answer to a long sought question.

Achilles skill was undeniable. It had once puzzled her that this master of death could create such beauty, but it was as familiar to her now as his gaze or his anger. Adara was so lost in the music that she did not even realize he had stopped playing until his fingers began to run through her hair, his nails raking her scalp in an understand showing of need.

"Come," he instructed, taking her hand and helping her to her feet. Odysseus rose to meet them, his dark brown curls melting in the firelight.

"Brother," Odysseus called, stepping forward and meeting Achilles with an unusually gruff embrace. They slapped each other's backs and shared words Adara was not privy too before pulling away.

"It always made me mad you had to be good at the lyre too," Odysseus said, shaking his head and turning to step away, the dark arms of the night beginning to swallow him. "The gods gave you all of the gifts and the rest of us one."

"The candle that burns the brightest burns the shortest," Achilles said with an achingly bright smile as he handed off his lyre to a passing blue clad woman. "Till the next, my friend."

{{{}}}

Falling into her arms that night felt like coming home.

"I love the smell of rosemary that haunts you," he murmured, running his nose along her jaw as they tangled in their bed. Our bed he thought with a fierce pride, for it had ceased to be his the moment he laid eyes upon her long ago in Lyrnessus.

"We cooked with rosemary in Lyrnessus too," she told him. She had said this to him before many a time, but he did not mind. He would never mind. "You smell like blood."

"Does it still bother you?"

"The smell? No, not for a long time," she admitted, brushing his hair out of his face.

"So tomorrow – we will go search for herbs?" He asked.

"Yes, stores are low and this way you can show Neoptolemus how full the stores must be when he arrives, to carry on when you cannot," she replied, glossing over the end of her comment in a whisper. Achilles nodded and said no more, pressing his lips to hers until Adara's body bloomed like a flower under his touch.

In the morning, they dressed each other without a second thought and she stepped up onto the chariot beside him. He had asked her to fetch fresh grain from the Spartan camp, and he would deposit her in the center of the beach where the army gathered.

Standing before him, he allowed her hair to tickle the patch of uncovered skin on his neck, one hand laying upon her waist to steady her as they pushed forward. Glancing down at her, she was regal in stature, her confidence standing before him and in her place within the Myrmidon camp sent a lion roaring through his chest. My equal he knew, and the hand on her hip tightened.

With a searing kiss he released her and helped her disembark, yelling at his men to clear a path for her when they arrived.

"Meet me by the river?" She called out as an afterthought as she walked away, and Achilles smiled, knowing that his teeth probably looked more like fangs about to tear her limb from limb than a gentle gesture. Maybe I will he considered as he watched her figure at last turn away from him and disappear into the sea of tents. With a mighty bellow, Achilles watched as the gates opened, the Achaeans spilling forth for yet another day of bloodshed and of living.