The remaining Castellanians that were in Ilion stood around the makeshift war table that they brought out into the courtyard not far from the gates.
"We need to get Hḗrē away from the battlefield," Thalia declared in english as she looked towards the soldiers being attended by the healers and those that were being sneaked away to Castellan.
"How," Travis asked. With Hḗrē and Athênê on the battlefield, the war would continue on. If they could get the Queen away, that'd leave Athênê who they could goad into fighting Apóllōn; a fight that Ζεύς would no doubt interfere in as he would object to his favored children fighting against one another.
Ariadnê gazed into the distance, a small grimace on her face. "Leave that to me."
In the middle of the night, Ariadnê slipped out of Ilion. With a few trinkets that Travis got for her from the Stolls' goodie bag, she was slipping through the shadows with an entirely different face. Her hair had lightened to a beautiful blond that fell down her back like a curtain, blue eyes turned bright violet. Her body shortened just a bit, taking her from 5'7 to 5' even, and her muscle transformed into an hourglass figure placing more emphasis on her curves.
She was sex on legs, wearing clothing found in Castellan giving her an exotic appeal as it clung to her figure. With her, she carried a statues of Hḗrē and Ζεύς of a mortal height that they had not had the chance to place within the kingdom due to her abduction and she made her way to Plataia where she planted the statues in the middle of the kingdom where all would be able to see after she knocked out the guards.
She dressed them into wedding attire before settling in until the morning.
And when the morning came, she took another appearance, this time she had short, auburn hair with a pointed nose. She was slender in figure and of average height with her eyes a poisonous green.
As the people came into town, she darted between them, whispering of Ζεύς marrying Auguste, a foreign princess who would take her place as his eighth and final wife and become Queen of the Gods.
It took absolutely no time at all for the whispers to gain traction and when both Ζεύς and Hḗrē descended onto the kingdom in fury, Ariadnê was already back in Castellan, enjoying a sparring session with Hektōr.
In Plataia, Hḗrē ripped the dress away from the statue while Ζεύς stood at her side, brandishing his lightning bolts to destroy whomever attempted to deceive the gods in their name. They both paused at the sight of statues in their images, painted carefully in a mirage of colors that stared lovingly into their eyes. Engraved at the foot were their names and inscription that immortalized their love for as long as they deathless gods were to live.
Hḗrē was pleased with the deceit as was Ζεύς, both in favor of ignoring the deception that brought them there and instead, taking the statues back with them to Olympos where Hḗrē took her throne once more and ignored the war in favor of Husband and her Family.
Achaeans were moving to the walls, their shields held up against their shoulders. Percy looked at them boredly from the walls of Ilion, casually blasting them away the closer they came. He, like the others, had most of their attention on Hektōr as he was chased around the kingdom by Ahkilles.
Percy was fit in better shape than any that was one of the deathless gods that came across them, but even he was feeling exhausted watching the impromptu race between the men.
Ariadnê was probably the only one not watching, leaning back in a chair while she enjoyed a nice tan. She was so unserious about this war since she already made up her mind to not lose it.
It was a little offensive to those that didn't actually know her. Príamos and Hekábē had already wasted their breath pleading to both Hektōr and Ariadnê to get him back within the walls when the former foolishly walked out of them.
Still, the men ran on past the lookout and the wind-swept fig tree, some distance from the wall, along the wagon track. They reached the two fair-flowing well springs which feed swirling Scamander's stream.
From one of them hot water flows, and out of it steam rises up, as if there were a fire burning. From the other, cold water comes, as cold as hail or freezing snow or melting ice, even in summer. By these springs stood wide tubs for washing, made of beautiful stone, where, in peacetime, before Achaea's sons arrived, Trojan wives and lovely daughters used to wash their brightly coloured clothing.
The men raced past there, one in full flight, the other one pursuing him. The man running off in front was a brave warrior, but the man going after him was greater. They ran fast, for this was no contest over sacrificial beasts, the usual prizes for a race.
They were competing for horse-taming Hektōr's life.
The two men raced, going three times round Príamos's city on their sprinting feet.
(All the gods looked on. Among them the first one to speak was Ζεύς, father of the gods and men: "What a sight! My eyes can see a fine man being pursued around the walls. How my heart pities Hektōr, who's often sacrificed to me, burning many thighs of oxen on the crests of Ida with its many spurs and valleys, on the city heights, as well. And now, godlike Akhilles is pursuing him on his quick feet round Príamos's city. Come, you gods, think hard and offer your advice— do we wish to rescue him from death, or kill him now, for all his bravery, at the hands of Pēleus' son, Akhilles?"
Then Athênê, goddess with the glittering eyes, replied to Ζεύς: "Father, lord of lightning and dark clouds, what are you saying? How can you want to snatch the man back from his wretched death. He's mortal—his fate doomed him long ago. Well, do as you wish, but we other gods will not all approve your actions."
Cloud-gatherer Ζεύς then answered Athênê: "Cheer up, Tritogeneia, my dear child, I'm not saying how my heart intends to act. I want to please you. So you can do whatever your mind tells you. Don't hold back."
Athênê, who was already eager, was spurred on by Ζεύς'S words. She rushed down from Olympus' peak.)
Ariadnê peeked an eye open and looked towards the heavens alongside the others of Castellan. Percy watched as she heaved a deep sigh before standing to her feet, bending to take her shoes off.
She gave Percy a teasing smile, "Looks like it's my turn now."
Swift Akhilles was still pressing Hektōr hard in that relentless chase. Every time he tried to dash for the Dardanian gates to get underneath the walls, so men on top could come to his assistance by hurling spears, Akhilles would intercept him and turn him back towards the plain, always making sure he kept running a line between Hektōr and the city.
Like a dream in which a man cannot catch someone who's running off and the other can't escape, just as the first man can't catch up—that's how Akhilles, for all his speed, could not reach Hektōr, while Hektōr was unable to evade Akhilles.
But how could Hektōr have escaped death's fatal blow, if Apóllōn had not for one last time approached, to give him strength and make his legs run faster?
Godlike Akhilles, with a shake of his head, prevented his own troops from shooting Hektōr with their lethal weapons, in case some other man hit Hektōr, robbed him of the glory, and left him to come too late.
(But when they ran past those springs the fourth time, Father Ζεύς raised his golden scales, setting there two fatal lots for death's long sorrow, one for Akhilles, one for horse-taming Hektōr.)
Ariadnê sprung into the air, long black tresses flying behind her like the ink of a squid within the water.
(Seizing it in the middle, Ζεύς raised his balance. Hektōr's fatal day began to sink, moving down to Haidês. At once Phoibos Apóllōn abandoned him. But— it moved no further as swift-footed Ahkilles moved them back into a balance. The gods stared in confusion.)
Then Athênê, goddess with the glittering eyes, came to Pēleus' son. Standing close to him, she spoke— her words had wings: "Glorious Akhilles, beloved of Ζεύς, now I hope the two of us will take great glory to Achaean ships, by killing Hektōr, for all his love of war. Now he can't escape us any longer, even though Apóllōn, the far shooter, suffers every torment, as he grovels before Father Ζεύς, who bears the aegis. Stay still now. Catch your breath. I'll go to Hektōr and convince him to turn and stand against you."
Once Athênê had said this, Akhilles obeyed, rejoicing in his heart, as he stood there, leaning on his bronze-tipped ash spear. Athênê left him.
She came to Hektōr in the form of Deïphobus, with his tireless voice and shape. Standing beside him, she spoke—her words had wings: "My brother, swift Akhilles is really harassing you, with his fast running around Príamos's city in this pursuit. Come, we'll both stand here, stay put, and beat off his attack."
Then Hektōr of the shining helmet answered her: "Deïphobus, in the past you've always been the brother whom I loved the most by far of children born to Hekábē and Príamos. I think I now respect you even more, since you have dared to come outside the wall to help me, when you saw me in distress, while the others all remained inside."
Goddess Athênê with her glittering eyes replied: "Dear brother, my father, my noble mother, and my comrades begged me repeatedly to stay there. They all so fear Akhilles. But here inside me my heart felt the pain of bitter anguish. Now, let's go straight for him. Let's fight and not hold back our spears, so we can see if Akhilles kills us both, then takes the bloodstained trophies to the ships, or whether you'll destroy him on your spear."
With these words, Athênê seduced him forward.
When they had approached each other, at close quarters, Hektōr spoke out first: "I'll no longer try to run away from you, son of Pēleus, as I did before, going three times in flight around Príamos's great city. I lacked the courage then to fight with you, as you attacked. But my heart prompts me now to stand against you. Let's call on gods to witness, for they're the best ones to observe our pact, to supervise what we two agree on. If Ζεύς grants me the strength to take your life, I'll not abuse your corpse in any way. I'll strip your celebrated armour off, Akhilles, then give the body back again to the Achaeans. And you'll do the same."
Akhilles, with a scowl, replied: "Hektōr, don't talk to me of our agreements. That's idiotic, like a faithful promise between men and lions. Wolves and lambs don't share a common heart—they always sense a mutual hatred for each other. In just that way, it's not possible for us, for you and me, to be friends, or, indeed, for there to be sworn oaths between us, till one or other of us falls, glutting Árēs, warrior with the bull's hide shield, on blood. You'd best remember all your fighting skills. Now you must declare yourself a spearman, a fearless warrior. You've got no escape. Soon Pallas Athênê will destroy you on my spear. Right now you'll pay me back, the full price of those sorrows I went through when you slaughtered my companions."
With these words, he hefted his long-shadowed spear, then hurled it. However, anticipating the throw, splendid Hektōr saw it coming and evaded it by crouching down, so the bronze spear flew over him, then struck the ground.
But as Pallas Athênê grabbed it and returned it to Akhilles, without Hektōr, that shepherd of his people, seeing what she had done...
Another body joined the group of three, landing silently between them.
A very beautiful, slender young woman of average height with an hourglass figure. She had wine-kissed skin, high cheekbones, startling blue eyes with full eyelashes, and straight, lush hair reaching her thighs.
She wore a dyed-green strophion that revealed her midriff and navel, matching skirt with a cream V-shaped waistline and no shoes. Her hair was adorned with small braids and interwoven with gems and jewels as it fanned around her, stopping just a little after her waist. Golden rosettes, and laurel wreaths armbands sat on her left arm while her ears were adorned with the tears of Aphrodítē; pearls that were also a tribute to her Father, Poseidón, the god of the sea, and was believed to help with health and immunity when worn frequently. Atop of her head, was a golden hairnet with the medallion consisting of a central repoussé bust of her stepmother, Amphitrítē. The net consisted of bands of gold spool beads linked by tiny filigreed chains, their intersecting points articulated with tiny images of the Twelve Olympioi Major.
And dangling ominous on her right wrist was a bracelet, of unknown origins that was filled with the unpredictability of the sea and magical charms that only responded to her, evident in how she flicked her wrist and a medium length xiphos, about 3-foot long, appeared in her hands.
"Son of Pēleus, why are you, a mere human, coming at my chosen with such anger? He, who will inherit the throne of Ilion, has been chosen by I, Ariadnê Ariea, a child of Inevitability. Anankê commands me; she who is beyond the reach of the younger gods whose fates they were sometimes said to control. My people are crowding in the city, while you chase off on a unattainable goal here. Tis not Prince Hektōr, you will face in battle. It is me. But you will never kill me. I'm not someone whose fate it is to die."
Swift-footed Akhilles, in a towering fury, then answered Ariadnê: "You will not find glory here, androkàpraina, deadliest of all queens. You will not rob me of great glory, saving this amathés, since you don't have to be afraid of future retribution. Meet me here. Let us cross swords, for just as you; I am sea-born."
Her smile was cruel as she pushed Hektōr further behind her. "Famous last words, I hear, fearless son of the violet-crowned Nêreis. Turn away now, give up this foolish quest or I shall have you deign the halls of my Uncle, Háidēs Polydegmôn. This war would then be easier on Trojans with you dead, for you're their greatest danger."
Hektōr pulled out his sharp sword, that strong and massive weapon hanging on his thigh, gathered himself.
And Ariadnê stood in resting position, her sword swinging mindlessly as the charms of her bracelet echoed throughout the air, a melody that drew attention like the victims of the Seirênes.
"This is a battle between men," Ahkilles snarled as he charged forward. His heart full of savage rage, covering his chest with that richly decorated shield, his shining four-ridged helmet nodding on his head, the golden plumes Hḗphaistos had set there shimmering around the crest. Just like that star which stands out the loveliest among all those in the heavenly night sky—the star of evening— that's how the sharp point then glittered on the spear Akhilles hefted in his right hand, intent on bypassing lovely Ariadnê and killing noble Hektōr. He inspected his fine skin, to see where it was vulnerable to a blow.
Hektōr in his heart saw everything so clearly—he thought to himself: "This is it, then. The gods are summoning me to my death. There's no escape. For a long time now, this must have been what Ζεύς desired, and Ζεύς's son, the god who shoots from far, and all those who willingly gave me help in earlier days. So now I meet my fate. Even so, let me not die ingloriously without a fight, but in some great action which those men yet to come will hear about."
Hektōr's entire body was protected by that beautiful armour he had stripped off powerful Pátroklos, once he'd killed him, except for that opening where the collar bones separate the neck and shoulders, at the gullet, where a man's life is most effectively destroyed.
Noble Akhilles attempted to strike him there, wanting to drive the spear point through his tender neck.
But as he drew closer, Ariadnê lifted her foot from the ground and struck him in the chest. The gods all bore witness to how the light touch of her feet sent the man flying through the air until the hulls of the Acheans' ship bore imprints of his image.
"Hektōr," she said, voice calm and uncaring as she gazed at the warrior pulling himself out of the destruction. "Return back behind the walls of Troy and leave no more. Tis as your Queen demands and so it shall be done. Take care of the steps you take for while I have brushed the Keres from you and delayed your death at the hands of Ahkilles tis not mean none else would not take the chance to strike down man-killing Hektōr."
"Wine-colored Ariadnê I cannot bear the thought of leaving you to face that swift-footed panoùgros. Your family would never forgive me. Your brother, who already bears hatred for me and my blood would have my head. And I would hide my face away in shame and take my place eis Aïdao."
"Your concern is cute," she replied, a small smile on her face before it dropped away. She turned to look at him, taking in his appearance. She could see why he was considered Greatest warrior of Troy. It was only in that he and Ahkilles stood as equals. But for all that he was brave and strong—he could not face the son of Pēleus and live.
Her eyes roamed over his dark skin, taking in the very stoutly build of his body, his wooly-hair and good beard. His eyes blinked attractively, squinting at her under the sun. She thought over everything she knew of him: how he was peace-loving, thoughtful, as well as bold, a good son, husband and father, and without darker motives. He was handsome, fierce, and high-spirited, merciful to the citizens, and deserving of love.
She could not allow him to die.
"I am ordering you away and there is none more stubborn than I when it comes to what I want. Do not forget, Hektōr, that it was to you that Pátroklos fell. He was dear to Ζεύς, my uncle and king. And he was a lover to my Father, Poseidón, who taught him the art of riding horses. Walk away now, son of Príamos. I will not say it again. Go home, hold your son in your embrace and pray to the gods and the gods of the old such as Mêtêr Megalê Rheia and Gaia, Matêr Pantôn. Pray to the Moirai, goddesses of fate who personified the inescapable destiny of man. Pray to Háidēs, king of the underworld and god of the dead. He who presides over funeral rites and defends the right of the dead to due burial. Pray to the Protogenoi. Pray to all-wise Anankê and ever-ageing Khronos. Pray Hektōr so that the Kêres, daimones of death in battle, agents of the Moirai will not crave your blood and feast upon it after ripping your soul free and sending it on its way to Aïdao."
Her gaze turned back to Ahkilles, who was rushing back towards them, face lit with a fury of a thousand suns. "The Kêres stand close about us in their thousands, no man can turn aside nor escape them, I will go on and win glory. I will not yield it to him."
WORD COUNT: 3366
WORDS TO KNOW:
Mêtêr Megalê Rheia - Great Mother Rheia
Gaia, Matêr Pantôn - Gaia, the Mother of All
eis Aïdao - in Háidēs
Háidēs Polydegmôn - Háidēs, the Host of Many
Ariadnê Ariea - Warlike Ariadnê