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"Do I not know real pain?"
The question echoed, hauntingly. Niera's words had never left Achilles, not then, not now as he braced himself against the ruts and bumps that jolted his chariot. He glanced over at Halcalmion, his driver. The words had sounded so clear he'd been almost sure that they were spoken.
Achilles frowned, he was headed into battle and other thought besides of killing and strategy were not good. Such a thing could earn him a head shorter. Yet still, even at his own reprimand his mind remained centered on Niera. On that strange girl whom he knew so little of. After revealing what had happened to her family, Niera had withdrew into her own stony silence. Ashamed with herself of even speaking of which she'd sworn she'd tell no-one. Achilles was the first person she'd ever told, and even then she hadn't really told him, she'd showed him.
Niera sat by herself, the distant noises of horses and chariots fading. She didn't know what she'd done when she'd showed Achilles her memory, only that she had. She didn't know half the things she could do with her power. She'd reached forward as she had out of impulse more than anything else. There had to be a way to harness her power in a controlled manner so she could use it as she willed and not when it came.
Silently Niera cursed Athena. The goddess had been as much help as... as... Niera worked her fingers through her hair, her headache only increasing. Since working with her power she'd had more of them, headaches. She never used to. She'd also been much more tired, needing sleep after only a few hours. Her muscles ached and stiffened. Niera didn't think she liked the Eastern climate.
Their were few noises around the camp now, just a handful of men and soldiers remained. Niera shook her head wanting to forget the reason why. The Greeks marched to battle today. A battle all of them had been waiting tensely for. Niera had seen the look of anticipation on Achilles face as he talked of the war. What was it about it that was so appealing? Niera, for the life of her, couldn't figure out. She had killed before, and enjoyed it, she knew that triumphant feeling even though a part of her whispered it's disgust.
But her killing was different. It had only been enjoyable because the blood that she spilled washed away the guilt, the feeling of failure that haunted her over her family's death. By killing the murderers she felt she settled the wrong. Her family would never come back, she knew that, but their death had been assuaged, at least a little. She didn't understand what killing one complete stranger after another did. Why that was a thing to be relished. With a quiet groan she lay back. Drowning her fears, and thoughts in sleep.
Armour glinted like silver in the sun and the reflection threw a glare into any onlooker's eyes. Like a great tidal wave the two opposing armies drew their men into ranks, causing lines to be formed. Phalanxes were at the foremost front, followed by the Chariots. In each chariot there were three men, an archer, a driver and a spearman. It would have been a glorious scene to witness if not for the carnage that followed the brief time where the armies gathered themselves in readiness. Horns sounded here and there, officers shouting at their divisions and overhead the harsh sound of great birds of prey waiting to be supplied with food.
Achilles gripped his spear tighter, his eyes casting over the men around him. Nervous, yet excited, few eyes were fearful. They would not know fear until they saw the point of the sword plunging into them, felt the life's blood pouring out, their vision darken and their limbs give way. Yet even did they know what fate awaited they would go forward, it was such courage, or folly as some would call it, that drove them on. They gave themselves hoping to make a difference for lives yet unborn. With sudden swiftness silence overcame the space between armies and the men stilled. A low horn sounded, its noise reverberating. The Phalanxes pulled up sharp. It was time to die.
The Trojan army had it's own separate group of archers, not mounted on chariots, and with a barked command they ran to the front in the gap between ranks. At another order strung their bows, fitting arrows and with a quick motion loosed them into the air as one. The silence was broken as yells and screams began to break out among the Greeks. Arrows arced overhead then plunged downwards, eagerly seeking flesh. The Greeks were on the defensive, shields raised overhead in an attempt to ward off the missiles. There was a pause in the black shower and the Greek Phalanxes marched forward, their shields forming a solid wall of bronze.
Achilles watched the intently. Awaiting the time when the chariots would sweep forward, their spiked wheels crushing Trojan bodies and casting chaos over the enemy. The Trojan Archers withdrew, still shooting even as they did so, and their Phalanx moved forward to meet that of the Greeks. Achilles watched closely, waiting. With a sudden crescendo of noise the two Phalanxes collided, metal meeting metal and ripping through flesh and bone to break it's way through the other. Another yell sounded and throwing back his own head in a cry of his own Achilles urged the horses forward, his chariot pulling out to the front listening to the thud of hooves behind him as his men followed. Dust rose in his wake and some spoke that it was Ares himself that whipped his horses forward, ignoring the driver and taking the reins for himself. Death smiled slowly, he would feed well this day.