Y'all think I can't get a chapter out when I say I will?

Chapter Twenty

Rage. It was such a potent emotion. It could turn the best of men into the worst of beasts. It could undo years of hard work. It was the beginning and end of empires. Rage was like the undertow—unseen, hidden beneath the surface, but once it had you in its grasp, you were gone. Mortals and immortals alike were susceptible to rage. Percy himself had fallen to it more than once, and the world had suffered for it. It was a potent weapon when focused correctly. It was a devastating weakness when not controlled.

Achilles' rage was immense, but it was childlike. It was excessive. For months now he'd hidden in his tent, not even emerging when the Trojans attacked the camp itself. They had nearly reached his tent before his loyal Myrmidons cut them down and not even then did Achilles so much as poke a head out. Stripped of his command as he was, he could not order them to fight. And so, the Myrmidons were a drain on their resources.

It was pointless.

"You have your thinking face on," Athena noted as she stepped up beside him. It had been many months since their confrontation on Mount Ida, and while the others were still sulking—or entering the early stages of approaching him once more—the ever-pragmatic Athena had quickly moved on from her grudge. "What troubles you?"

"Rage," he said after a long moment, "goddess, sing the rage of Peleus' son, Achilles, that cost the Achaeans such countless losses."

"Poetry?" That Athena seemed taken aback amused him. She more than most knew that his interests did not always lie with war. "Of Achilles?"

"Why not?" Percy shrugged. "He is a central figure of this war—arguably, at the moment, one of the most central. I think I could write a decent epic about this whole war."

"I would argue that you are the most central figure of this war. Where would you lie in this epic?"

"I would not," he gave her a small smile. "My position in the mortal war will fade with time. I do not wish to be remembered for what I have done this past decade."

"Ashamed?" There was a teasing quality to her voice. She did not know how correct she was.

"I am." Percy turned to her. "It is not an easy thing, to commit to a war. Immortals cannot truly understand just how devastating a war is on the psyche. Well, perhaps Dionysus can, but that is his burden to bear. I spend my life surrounded by those who will die. Every day I kill at least ten men. Most days it is closer to fifty. Particularly bad days it will be more than a hundred. My body is soaked in the blood of generations. My soul is tainted by the act of killing. I am an avatar of death. How much do I have to kill before it is all I know? How long before it is all I do? What happens when I lose myself to the bloodletting, and can no longer tell friend from foe? What happens when I no longer know when a fight is over? Who stops me? For how long? Am I locked away? Kept imprisoned on an island where I can harm no other?"

He paused a moment, releasing a deep breath. "Or do I simply stop caring? Do I begin to feel nothing? Do I become little more than one of Hephaestus' automatons? I do not know the answers, Athena, and that makes me deeply uncomfortable. Worse still, I recognise the person I am becoming again, because I have been him before. Perseus Apollyon. Not the legend, that men whisper about, but the creature that kills and kills until an entire sea is stained red with the blood of the innocent."

"I do not know the answer," Athena answered after some time. "I have not met this man you claim to be capable of being. Frankly, I am not certain he can exist except as a fear of yours. I have done the research. You were a monster in service of Olympus, but you were aware of your monstrous acts. That was your first 'exile' was it not? You left Olympus for nearly a thousand years, and returned around the time Ares was born?"

"You've been talking to some old spirits then," he chuckled mirthlessly. "Yes, I left for a rather long time. The longest of them all, thus far. It was good for me. I went North, to the land beyond our gods. Met some new tribes, made some new friends, nearly started an inter-pantheon war. It was an interesting experience."

"What was that last one?"

"Why are you here, Athena?" He ignored her question. "I've been mercurial at best lately, and you know how much I dislike the presence of Gods in this camp."

"Yes," she hummed, "and perhaps if I were in the camp you would have cause to take issue with me. But here I am, right beside you, not interacting with any mortals. That does not put me at odds with your decree, correct?"

"Nine years and you are the only one to figure that out," he sighed. "Beside Hestia, of course, but she never came for anyone but me."

"Oh the others know, they just don't want to see you," Athena told him. "They're still quite upset with you—as am I, by the way. I do not appreciate the slaughter of my priesthood, and if it happens again, I will not be merciful."

"If it happens again, I may be coming for you next, so your threats mean very little," he responded mildly. "I am not so easily threatened, Wise One, so do not attempt to try."

"And I am not so easily deterred. I will not have my worshippers slaughtered for my actions."

"Then perhaps do not give me cause to do so again, Athena, and they will be spared."

The stare down between them would have been legendary had anyone witnessed it, but Percy doubted the tales would have mentioned that the goddess broke contact first, looking away with a petulant huff. "I did not come here to fight, Percy. I…wanted to see how you are doing. The others will not admit it, but we are all worried about you."

"As you should be," Percy nodded. "I am very close to losing my mind. This war is a mess of politics of both divine and mortal making, and I care very little for each on their own, so try and imagine how I feel when it is both at the same time."

"I cannot pretend to understand, although I feel as if my…experiences with your father—"

"Don't even try," he held up a hand. "Your little feud is perhaps as childish as the tantrum that Achilles is having this moment, and that's—"

He was interrupted by a horn sounding three times, drifting across the camp, and echoed by smaller horns from each individual section. It was a signal that had become quite familiar since Achilles and the Myrmidon's quit the field—the Trojans were launching another attack.

"Interesting." Athena noted. "They're getting bold. Did they not attack yesterday as well?"

"So they did. I'm very much hoping your plan wasn't to distract me so I would not see this coming."

"I knew of the attack, but I had no intention to distract you," she shook her head. "If you wish to go fight, I will not stop you."

"I suppose it is lucky for you that I do not wish to fight today."

"I suppose it is."

They stood side by side as the Trojans launched their assault on the low palisade that protected the Achaean camp. In the distance he could make out Telamonian Ajax standing on the ramparts, throwing back oncoming soldiers. Closer to them yet was the dynamically deadly duo of Diomedes and Odysseus, fighting so well they may have been one man in two bodies. Menelaus roared triumphantly as he held the line, while Agamemnon stood just behind a shield wall, looking for the perfect place to strike.

Everywhere he looked, Achaeans fought to defend their camp.

So too did the Myrmidons, but their king was noticeably missing. They fought with half the enthusiasm they normally did, and nowhere near the same skill. Achilles was killing his own men and he didn't even care. It was infuriating to see from a man who had mostly avoided the pitfalls his arrogance should have brought, but it was even more infuriating because Percy knew every Myrmidon by name. He knew how they fought. He knew they deserved better.

"You are worried," Athena noted quietly. "For the mortals. The Aeolians that Achilles leads."

"Yes, I've grown rather attached to them." He confessed. "They're spectacular warriors. Some of the best alive, if I'm being honest. Brilliant soldiers too—it'll be centuries, if not millennia, before we see the likes of them again."

"You could lead them."

"I am not their king, and I have no desire to usurp Achilles."

"I think that you do, actually." She told him. "I've been watching you for some time. I've known you even longer. You do not wish to be a king, that much is true, but I think you do wish to be a leader. Artemis has her Hunt. I'm sure you could have some band of immortal followers if you truly wished so. Who would tell you no?"

"Someone would, at some point." He said, before his attention was grabbed by a figure charging out into the attacking Trojans.

"Is that Achilles?" Athena blinked slowly. "It seems his vow not to fight was not as strong as he desire to do so."

Percy was silent as he watched Achilles barrel into the Trojans, ducking under spears, redirecting swords—it was all very familiar to him.

But it was wrong.

There was a cautiousness that Achilles did not display. Blows he would normally let bounce of his skin were instead intercepted by his shield. Rows of men he'd charge into without a second glance were ignored in favour of isolated pockets. It was Achilles style of fighting, that much was certain.

It was not Achilles, however. There was only one man alive who was skilled enough to impersonate him, and only one man alive who was strong-willed enough to convince Achilles to at least allow the perception that he was fighting once more.

"You foolish boy," he murmured. "You'll be remembered forever for this."

"What now?"

"It's time for you to go, Athena." Percy said. "And it is time for me to fight."

She stared at him for a long moment, before nodding and flashing away. Once he no longer felt her presence on the field of battle, he left the temple roof.

It took him very little time to arm and armour himself, but by the time he was ready, the Trojans had been driven from the camp. The Myrmidons, led by Patroclus-disguised-as-Achilles, had led the charge to chase them down, and for the first time, Percy found himself following a trail of carnage rather than creating it himself. Eventually, however, he caught up with the main force. He pushed his way through the crowds of Myrmidons until he reached the front of the lines.

"Lord Perseus," Eudoros grinned at him. "Achilles is putting on a fine show, is he not?"

He was not, but Percy didn't say as much. Instead, he watched as Patroclus danced around Sarpedon, who was looking worn down and tired. Percy had seen him in the charge the day before, and while he may have rested physically, his mind had not caught up with his body. All it took was a single slip—a very minor mistake that most men would have missed. But Patroclus was not most men. Trained by Chiron, Achilles, and Percy himself, he was one of the most talented warriors alive. He saw the mistake and he capitalised on it, taking a stutter step to his right before cutting back left and bringing his spear up inside Sarpedon's guard. The son of Zeus was dead before he knew what was happening, a spike of bronze impaling his brain for an instantaneous death.

The skies rumbled as Zeus' displeasure was made known. Percy didn't even spare a glance upwards.

"Is there no one else?" Patroclus rumbled, and Percy had to admit, his impersonation of Achilles was incredibly accurate.

The answer was a spear, launched from the Trojan lines. It slammed into Patroclus' helmet, sending him careening to the side as Hektor strode forth, his spear and shield held aloft. As Patroclus steadied himself, Percy felt uneasy. There was something about the spear that did not sit right with him—it was far too accurate a throw for the average mortal, but Percy had sensed any interference. And yet…Patroclus was swaying on his feet. Blows to the head were notorious for the injuries they could cause, but the armour he wore was some of the best in the world. It would have taken more force than a normal man could muster to affect him so.

Hektor and Patroclus exchanged blows for some time, both sides cheering loudly. Then Patroclus made a foolish mistake.

He repeated a move.

As Sarpedon had, Hektor left a minor opening in his guard, and Patroclus saw it as he had before. And as he began to execute the same stutter-step in-cut move he had on the son of Zeus, Percy realised that Hektor had done it intentionally. Before he could even begin to move, Hektor's spear was rammed into Patroclus' stomach, protruding out the other side of his torso in a morbidly intriguing image.

All cheering stopped then. Even Hektor seemed surprised. His spear was withdrawn as Patroclus fell backwards, his helmet tumbling off into the sand. Somewhere in the crowd, a man cried out in anguish as he recognised Patroclus. The Trojan Prince who had killed him blinked several times, before looking up—directly at Percy. But while he had killed Patroclus, he was not yet dead, sputtering blood from his lips as he twitched on the ground. And so, slowly, Hektor drew his sword, knelt beside him, and drove it in just underneath his armpit, directly to the heart.

As he did so, Percy moved forward.

"I thought he was Achilles." Hektor whispered. "I did not know."

"He was very nearly good enough to be," Percy answered, kneeling beside him. "But he was not. He was my friend, Hektor, and I should strike you down where you stand. But he was a warrior, and you granted him a warrior's death, so I will not. By rights, his armour is yours. His body, however, is not. You may try to take it, but you will die."

Hektor nodded silently, and made quick work of stripping the armour, which was quickly hurried away by one of his companions. Once it was done, he rose.

"The fighting is done." He announced.

"Not yet," Percy shook his head, drawing his sword, and flicking it into the crowd of Trojans. It caught the man who had launched the spear at Patroclus in the neck. "Now the fighting is done. You may take that man's body if you wish, but leave my sword."

The Trojans retreated from the field in an orderly manner. Behind him, Percy felt the presence of several men behind him. He turned to see Odysseus, Menelaus, Ajax, and Eudoros looking at him for guidance.

"Guard the body," he said. "I will inform Achilles. Ensure there is a direct path here, and that none get in his way."

He didn't wait to see if they obeyed, instead making his way back to the Achaean camp. Word had travelled faster than him of the death of Patroclus, but thankfully, it had yet to reach Achilles. Men fell silent as he passed them, some of them crying, some of them expressionless. None expressed joy—all men knew what it meant. The few Myrmidons left behind to guard the camp looked at him for answers, but his expression and his presence meant that no words needed to be shared.

Achilles was lounging on his bed as Percy entered his tent, a bored expression on his face. It vanished quickly as he took in Percy's own.

"What is it?" He asked.

Percy took a deep breath.

MMXXII

So I managed to get this chapter done in time! Yay me!

Anyway, Chapter Twenty was always meant to be the Death of Patroclus. It's a landmark event, but it's also the death warrant of Troy, more than anything else in this story. This is what leads Achilles to return to the war. This is what leads to his famous duel with Hektor, and ultimately, to his own death. This is what seals Troy's destruction, root and stem, by the Achaeans. It also means we're probably down to the last five chapters of this story. I'm gonna do my best to have it finished up by the end of the year (hopefully sooner), but I can't promise that, especially because I'm getting closer to finals and all that. But at least I got this one out in a timely fashion!

I have a discord where you can talk to me about stuff! The code is aQyrha34Pu

Cheers, CombatTombat