Chapter Nineteen
Nine years of siege had numbed Percy's mind to the horrors of plague, but he had to admit, Apollo had outdone himself with the one that came sweeping through the Achaean camp. Men fell sick by the thousands and died by the hundreds. For nine days and nine nights, they were devastated by sickness, and it was only made worse by the fact that the Trojans were launching daily and nightly raids now that they knew how weak their position was. Of course, the sickness couldn't affect Percy, and Apollo needed to stay out of his sight to avoid punishment, meaning that wherever Percy walked, men were healed of their sickness. They proclaimed him a saviour, said that he was blessed by the gods.
Blessed by the gods.
What a fucking joke. No one seemed to understand that they were in this entire situation because of the gods. If it wasn't Paris, it would have been someone else. If not Troy, somewhere else. There were a million reasons for the gods to start a war. This was just one of them.
Blessed by the gods.
A god was actively cursing them and they still believed that they cared. Percy loved mortals, but he didn't truly understand them. Then again, mortals did not truly understand themselves, and if they didn't know what they were doing, how was anyone else supposed to? It was frankly a miracle that he hadn't truly snapped yet, dealing with so many fragile and fickle egos. It was like attempting to herd children towards a meal.
"Lord Perseus," one of the men, whose affliction had vanished the moment Percy passed him, called out. "Bless you, my lord! Gods bless you!"
It took everything in his soul not to lash out at the man. Instead, he gave a tight nod and moved on. After passing another hundred or so men, he finally reached his destination—the tent of Diomedes, who had sent a carefully phrased invitation to share the mid-day meal. Percy wasn't a fool, and knew exactly what he was walking into. That meant there was very little surprise when he stepped through the flap of the tent to find that Diomedes was not alone, nor that it was a large group of lords, princes, and kings present.
"Perseus," Diomedes began, but Percy held up a hand to stop him.
"No." He said simply. "I am not going to order Agamemnon to give up Chryseis. Yes, I certainly could force him, but how would I be better than the Trojans? How would I be better than Paris? He is killing your men with his pride. He does not care that he is killing your men with his pride. I am not the solution here, gentlemen. If you wish for it to end, then make it end. Leave me out of it. I am here to fight a war, not to play peacemaker between men who should know better. Solve your own problems, like men."
He took a moment to look around the room. Most of the men couldn't even meet his gaze. The few that did couldn't hold it for long.
"Is there anything else? No? Fantastic. Have a good rest of your day." He pivoted on his heel and marched right back out of the tent. These days, Percy truly regretted getting involved in the Trojan conflict. Perhaps he should have done as asked and simply sat it out. But that would have involved breaking his word, and that was something that Percy was loathe to do.
It was true that there was little that could be done to him. Styx might consider targeting those close to Percy in an attempt to punish him, but at the same time, she might not. It was far more likely that she'd simply ruin his life for a century or two until she got bored or someone else drew her attention. Still, his word was his bond, and he hadn't spent ten millennia honouring his word just to break it because he was frustrated.
But, honestly, could he be blamed? He'd done everything in his power short of directly circumventing the Fates to ensure that the war went mostly unimpeded by the gods. He'd threatened, killed, and murdered in order to keep the Olympians in balance, and it had worked. True, he'd made an enemy of half the council in the process, but he'd retire from mortal politics for a century or two and everything would be fine. Rivalries between the gods may be eternal, but he was too valuable a resource for them to hold something against him for too long. His absence would remind them that as useful as their children could be, he was infinitely more competent than any of their by-blows.
As he usually did, Percy retreated to the Temple of Apollo overlooking the Greek Camp. Had it truly been nine years since he had stormed it with Achilles and the others? It felt longer. Much, much longer. So many of those who had come to Troy were so far changed. Many of the soldiers—many of the princes—had been little more than boys when they arrived, and now near all of them were men. Some had risen from Prince to King, by deaths—natural or otherwise—or acclamation. There was a change in the culture of the Achaeans as well. Brutality was far more commonplace, and hospitality was losing its charm. Men were more suspicious, faster to resolve conflicts with violence rather than words. If they took this lifestyle back with them to the mainland, it wouldn't be long before the city-states were warring against one another once more. Not for the first time, Percy considered the long-term results of the war. How would it be remembered? What stories would be told of it in the years, decades, centuries, millennia to come? Would his presence be remembered? Would he be relegated to the shadows? There was no consistency to what mortals chose to remember. Sometimes he was there. Sometimes he wasn't. Sometimes his actions were credited to someone else, and other times he was credited with those of another. How would he be remembered for this war? As the man who tried to keep it mortal? As the immortal who shifted the balance to greatly in the favour of the Achaeans by getting involved? Neither? Both?
Hours passed as he sat on the roof of the temple. While the Trojans had been unrelenting in their assaults once they realised how sick the Achaeans were, they became more cautious once Percy made his presence known—as well as his lack of illness. There was only so much they were willing to risk. Probing attacks here and there, striking furthest from where they knew him to be. It was sound strategy. Not for the first time Percy found himself impressed with Hektor, Sarpedon, and Aeneas. The three men had taken command of a war that they did not want to fight, a war that, by all accounts should have been won quickly, and turned it into a brutal fight. For every city the Achaeans sacked, the Trojans inflicted heavy casualties on them. Complacency as existed in the early years of the siege wasn't possible anymore. Weaknesses were found and exploited rapidly.
The Trojans had an army that was near-professional at this point.
Then again, so did the Achaeans. These weren't the levy-armies that had existed in the past. When a man arrived to the plains of Ilus, he was no longer whatever he had been in a past life—farmer, potter, baker—and instead he was now a soldier. Many men had been soldiers for nearly a decade. Very few cared to remember what they had been before. Percy didn't have the luxury of being a soldier. He was a leader. A diplomat. An administrator. He was all of those things and none of them. Everything he did was by the grace of someone else. He led the Myrmidons with Achilles' permission. He organised the camp with Agamemnon's compliance. He negotiated with kings and generals with the agreement of the others. But none of what he had was his own. Perhaps that was his mistake. He'd spent so long avoiding leadership that he had wound up with only his own reputation as currency.
He could have been a king many times over. He'd been offered thrones more times than he could remember. And he knew why he'd refused them. They didn't truly want Percy to rule them. They wanted his reputation to protect them. They wanted his strength to protect them. But they didn't want his leadership. They'd obey Percy because they feared his strength, but they'd not care for his rule. At that point, he was not a leader, but a glorified bodyguard, and he'd done that before. No, if all he was to be was a protector for those too cowardly to protect themselves, he'd rather bury himself alive for a thousand years.
For the first time in a very long time, Percy's time on the roof of the temple wasn't interrupted by someone. Instead, it was a loud commotion from the camp below that drew him from his thoughts. It took a very brave or very foolish man to spark a conflict in the Myrmidon camp, but the Achaean host was filled to the brim with both. With a sigh, Percy elected to go investigate before someone tried to involve him anyway. He was not surprised that there was some sort of fight going on, but he was surprised as to where his feet led him.
Yes, it took a very brave or very foolish man to start a fight in the Myrmidon camp, but it took a man who was insane to do so with Achilles. That narrowed the list of suspects down rather drastically. Or rather, down to one.
Agamemnon was flanked by some of his best warriors as Patroclus, Phoenix, and Eudoros held Achilles back. Briseis—the war-bride that Achilles had taken—was firmly gripped by two Mycenaean soldiers, who looked none too pleased to be the focus of Achilles ire on their master's behalf. On its own, there was nothing to indicate what had started…whatever this was. But Percy liked to think that he was somewhat intelligent and could paint a picture. Men had been begging Agamemnon to return Chryseis and end the plague. Many of those same men had come to Percy earlier in order to make him to it for them, for which he'd refused them and told them to solve their own problem. Now, Agamemnon had taken Briseis. The King of Mycenae was outspoken in his belief that Achilles and the Myrmidons had given up the least amongst the Achaeans, and if the other kings and princes had bound together and forced him to give up his prize, Percy had no doubt that the son of Atreus would be so arrogant and prideful to demand Achilles' from him. And with Percy unavailable to deny his request…well, never let it be said that Agamemnon was not intelligent.
His presence was still unknown as Achilles hurled threat after threat at Agamemnon, the men holding Briseis, the men holding him, and anyone else who caught his attention—and anger. It was, quite frankly, childish and unimpressive. But that was the curse that Achilles bore—his invulnerability made him arrogant and full of rage, and when it was aroused, it was a sight to behold. Watching the three men holding him back, Percy knew that they were moments away from losing control of their king, and that was when he moved.
Achilles broke Phoenix's grip on his arm with a violent jerk, which in turn allowed him to slip loose of Patroclus and Eudoros. By the time the trio had recovered from losing him, Achilles was halfway to Agamemnon, his guards scrambling to draw their weapons. Not that it would have helped them in the slightest—if Achilles had reached them, he'd have torn the men to pieces with his bare hands.
But Achilles did not reach them. Percy intercepted him before then, their bodies colliding in a mighty clash. Before the Phthian King knew what was happening, Percy had driven the back of his heel into Achilles' weak spot, causing the man to seize up. He continued with his sweep, and brought him to the ground, pinning him with a knee. Achilles was still in his rage, however, and lashed out at Percy, driving a fist into his side. He responded by scooping up a handful of sand and shoving it into his mouth, causing him to start sputtering and choking. After a moment, Percy was able to roll him into his stomach, letting him spit out the sand but not letting him rise to his feet.
"Are you all children?" He demanded loudly. "By my father's beard, I could hear you from the roof of the Temple!"
"HE TOOK BRISEIS!" Achilles roared.
"Yes, I can see that." Percy replied. "Now, if I let you up, will you attempt to attack again? Because next time, I won't be as gentle."
His words caused Achilles to pause. Percy knew what he was thinking, and how it would shape their interactions in the future.
"Very well." He said, before getting off the Myrmidon king's back. Still, he placed himself between Achilles and Agamemnon to dissuade further aggression. "Now that we're not about to commit a king-slaying, can we discuss this like rational men?"
"King Agamemnon has seized Briseis, Achilles war-bride," Patroclus stepped forward, placing a hand on Achilles' shoulder. "By all our customs, Perseus, this is a crime."
"I have been forced to give away my war bride!" Agamemnon countered. "I was promised any prize I wish in return, and I wish for the girl."
"And who made this promise?" Percy turned, arching an eyebrow. "Certainly not I."
"Odysseus. Diomedes. Nestor. Menestheus. A dozen more princes and kings." Agamemnon waved dismissively. "They made the promise freely, and now I take what I want."
Percy hummed in response. "Very well. I see no need to interfere. If you wish to make an enemy of Achilles, Agamemnon, that is your choice."
"Lord Perseus!" Patroclus stepped forward. "You are the only one with the authority to undo this injustice—"
"And I will not." Percy interrupted him. "I am not your mothers. It is not my job to make you give each other back your toys. I am here to lead this coalition to victory, and that is what I will do."
"You'll do it without the Myrmidons then," Achilles stated, causing Agamemnon to lose some of his prideful bluster. "Until Briseis is returned to me, not one of my Myrmidons will fight the Trojans. We will remain in our camp. We will defend our camp. We will do nothing else."
"Are you certain that is the route you wish to take, King Achilles?" He asked.
"It is," he nodded. "I thank you for your years of commanding my soldiers, but your duties as general of the Myrmidons are done."
"As you wish," Percy bowed his head. "But allow me to give you some words of advice, as a man who has seen wars before—you will not escape the war by hiding in your camp. Eventually, one way or another, you will be drawn back into it. Pray that the cause is not a loss you cannot recover from. Better to withdraw entirely from the war than to pretend it does not exist."
Achilles stared at Percy for a moment longer before pivoting on his heel and marching back into his tent. Slowly, the other Myrmidons did the same. Percy remained rooted in place, meeting each and everyone one of their looks until they were all gone. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Thank you, Perseus, for—ugh!" Agamemnon's words were cut off as Percy spun around and drove his fist into the king's face, breaking his nose with a satisfying crunch.
"You disgust me," he told the king, placing his foot over his throat. "You are a gutless fiend better served in the Fields of Asphodel than the ruler of one of the greatest Achaean states, and yet somehow you are still in this realm. Take your victory, Agamemnon, but do not think that you have won my support or acceptance of this act."
He kneeled down so that only the king heard his words.
"You are no better than Paris, and when this war is over, make sure you sleep with an eye open for the rest of your life. Each breath you take is one that I allow you. When I decide that the time is come, I will send you to my uncle, personally."
He stepped off the king and wandered back towards the temple.
Nine years of war passed, and one left. It couldn't come soon enough.
MMXXII
I cannot apologise enough for the delay in updates. I have no excuse for not being able to write this story, because as me writing nearly 2k words in one sitting proves, I can write for this, I just don't want to. I'm gonna try to pick up the pace again, and hopefully I can get my shit together and have a chapter ready either by next Friday (11/25) or the Friday after (12/2). I really do want this story done by the end of the year, so we'll see how that goes.
I have a discord! The code is aQyrha34Pu
Cheers, CombatTombat
