A/N: Hello. Wow, this feels weird. It's been so long since I sat down to type something. How're you all? I know, it's been a while, and most of you probably thought I was dead. But I'm here now, for I don't know how long. But it'll really be a while before you hear from me again after New Years. But I think by August I should be available, and chapters will be more constant. I haven't abandoned any of my stories, currently published or in the safety of my Google docs. So, don't lose hope, and thanks for sticking beside me for this long.

Anyway, to continue this story you've all been waiting for, I had to reread the previous chapters (I forgot everything about everything, lol). And, I'm going to admit, I was a bit disappointed in myself. Flat characterisation, weird and subpar dialogue, and not a lot of flow. The story felt a bit rushed and I want to rewrite it, badly. But I don't have time for that now, so maybe August? I'm going to try hard to make this story much more readable and worth your attention. I really do hope my writing has improved, but be warned, it may also have declined due to my lack of practice, idk. But anywhere, here's the next arc of this story, and I hope you enjoy.

P.S — I've been working on several one-shots while I've been away, and once I'm done typing them all, I'll be pumping out at least once a week, hopefully. We'll see.

ACHILLES, the fair haired warrior prince, pursed his lips thoughtfully as the soldiers led an old man into Agamemnon's command tent. They sat at a round table in the middle of the structure, all the Kings and commanders of the Achaeans, debating and discussing their next course of action. Truth be told, the son of Thetis was bored. He didn't know how long they'd been in the meeting for, but he was hungry, and tired, and he was sick of all these men and fighters and he wanted to go to bed.

But he sighed to himself, glancing upwards as the guards retreated and the old man bowed. The talk of war ceased, slowly dimming around the table as one by one, the leaders of Greece realised the other presence in the room, and turned in their seats to face him. Achilles had been dimly aware of the guard who had arrived a few minutes prior and whispered into Agamemnon's ear. He hadn't been close enough to hear the exchange, but the High King had nodded curtly—well, as much as one could do without a neck—and the guard had bustled out again. Achilles guessed, correctly, that they had come to inform the King of the arrival of the man.

"Speak, then," Agamemnon flicked his wrist at the old man. "Tell us why you sought to interrupt our meeting, Herald of Apollo."

Achilles couldn't stop his mind, as he remembered a fierce battle, and a green eyed man who had gone by that same alias before trying to kill him, a long time ago. Unwillingly, the corners of his lips pulled up and he shook his head, grimacing. For a decade, he had clashed constantly, again and again, with this man, this son of Poseidon. Two men, perhaps not so different from each other. God-born, hailing from the raging sea itself. Immortal, invincible, one more so than the other. Both forces to be reckoned with. Both, without whom this war would have ended a decade ago.

Perhaps in another life, they would have been good friends. Maybe even best friends.

The Prince grimaced again, stilling his wandering thoughts and focusing on the task at hand. Palamedes' replacement met his eyes from the other side of the table, and nodded. Achilles nodded back, then glanced away. He hadn't bothered to learn the other man's name, just glad that he was less of a bastard than his former King. It had been a while since their last battle. The Trojans, after continuously battering them had decided to pull back, for reasons of their own. They had come close, again and again, to breaching the walls a second time. But every time, again and again, Achilles and his comrades had beat them back, but with considerable effort. The fair haired man was drawn out of his personal musings as the priest bowed low. Agamemnon motioned for him to rise.

The man was withered, ancient, with curly grey hair and an equally grey beard. His eyes were turquoise coloured, and he was dressed in gold and white robes, the edges sandy, leaning on a golden, intricately carved staff topped with a golden laurel wreath. Achilles knew it wasn't fake.

"My Kings, may the gods who watch over us all grant you victory in your conquest of Ilius. May the hand of Jove, sire of men and gods, be with you to sack the city, and return you safely to your homes." There were pleased murmurs from around Achilles as the men received the Priest's blessings. The old man, still leaning on his staff, cleared his throat. "I am Chryses, My Lord. I have come—" He stuttered, then dropped to his knees before the table, bowing his head in supplication. "You have my daughter, My Lord. I have come to plead, to beg you to free her, and accept this gift, this ransom and all my wealth, in honour of the son of Olympus, Phoebus Apollo. I—"

Achilles swore silently to himself, pushing his chair backwards and shooting a glance at Agamemnon. The High King's face had darkened considerably, and the blue eyed man could see a vein pulsing. Achilles made to stand, to move to the front of the table. For whatever reason, no medium of the gods could be treated as such, allowed to lie prostate before lesser men. Even if said lesser man was the High King of most of Greece. No matter how many evils he had committed, Achilles still honoured Olympus. He began to move, but Odysseus beat him to it, grabbing hold of the man and helping him rise, slowly. Satisfied, the son of Thetis turned to face the Sons of Atreus at the held of the table, and folded his arms. Menelaus was drumming repeatedly on the wooden table with his fingers. He looked tired, bags under his eyes. Achilles was sure he didn't look much different.

His gaze shifted to Agamemnon. The King saw him looking, and growled, "Sit."

On a normal day, he would have argued. He would have insulted Agamemnon for daring to speak to him in such a way, but he honestly didn't have the time or the energy for that. Running a hand though his hair, he eased himself into the cushioned chair beside him, and leaned forward on his elbows. At his right, Diomedes was at attention, eyes trained on Agamemnon, waiting for the refusal they knew was coming. The Kings were murmuring among themselves, Nestor on the right hand of Agamemnon whispering lowly to the Mycenaean.

At his left, Greater Ajax leaned back in his seat, popping a grape into his opened mouth. When he was done chewing, he drawled, "I think we should listen to him, Agamemnon. Take the sceptre, release the girl." Achilles and several of the men around him nodded their approval.

The fat turd only shot them a glare. "This is my personal matter, unrelating to the war at hand; and arguing homesick fools have no say in my affairs. You will do well to remember that." Most of the men stiffened. Agamemnon's lips curled as he faced the old man, who was leaning on Odysseus for support. "The girl, Chryseis—" The old man nodded, eagerly. Agamemnon bared his teeth. "She was a spoil of war. She was captured, rightfully, with no foul play. We all have spoils of war. After every conquest, they are divided, and she ended up with me by the will of the gods. I do not see why I must let her go." He paused. "Take him away. I do not want to see you tarrying about in this place or around my ships, or it shall not end well with you. Your daughter is mine now, to use as I see fit. She will grow old away from her home, warming my bed in Tiryns. Your sceptre and wreath will earn you nothing. Leave."

As though on cue, two guards stepped in through the tent flap and hurriedly came to grab on to the old man by his arms. Odysseus let go of him, shooting him an apologetic glance. The old man bowed his head and did not speak further, allowing himself to be dragged outside. The tent was quiet once more, and Achilles shook his head. Stupid. Agamemnon was stupid. But he frowned, remembering his own spoil of war, waiting for him in his chambers. Agamemnon raised a good point, loathe as he was to admit it.

"Offending a priest of the gods isn't a good idea, Agamemnon," Odysseus said, quietly. But a silent fire roared in his eyes as he shook his head. "Neither is insulting your comrades. We're the ones who'll watch your back in battle. You would do well to remember that."

As silent as a wraith, Athena's favoured slipped out of the tent. One by one, the council of kings dispersed, traipsing into the open air of the beach, silent as shadows but as furious as the flames of Apollo which Agamemnon had no doubt just poured onto them.

~ • ~

PERSEUS tilted his head back, lips slightly parted as the scent of salt water assaulted his nostrils. He shut his eyes, inhaling, trying to calm his frayed nerves. The waves roared behind him, and the man exhaled, eyelids peeling open to take in the beach they were on. It was an unoccupied section of it, unsullied by Graeceans and far behind the barriers the Trojans had made when they'd taken back their beach. He was nervous, yes, and as much as he hated the sea, as much as he hated Poseidon, the water rejuvenated him, always. Made him calm.

His thoughts strayed to his deadbeat dad. "Are you one of mine?"

He scoffed, loudly. Are you one of mine. Poseidon didn't even know he existed. Perseus recalled, involuntarily, the battle he had had against the god of the seas, all those days ago. All his fury, his rage, held on to for decades, everything he had kept within him, burst out from the box he had locked them in. He had lost control, and he had unleashed himself on the master of the oceans. When Poseidon had at last realised, he had blatantly refused to attack, only lifting his weapon to keep Perseus from touching him. But that hadn't stopped him; he'd continued, until the god had turned tail and melted into mist. Still refusing to fight him.

Coward.

Bastard.

Perseus felt his stomach churn, and behind him, the waves roared angrily, as though in answer to the tug he'd felt in his gut. He started, then glanced at the beach. Was that…? Before he could think further on it, he heard the groan, and saw the old man hobble out of the forest. Beside him, Hector visibly relaxed. Aeneas let out a huff of approval, standing and dusting the sand off his armour. They stood at attention, waiting, as finally, Chryses reached them on the small stretch of sand. By the dejected air around him and the certainly visible lack of girl, Perseus guessed the meeting hadn't gone as planned.

Hector frowned as the man stopped, and Aeneas moved forward, offering his arm to Chryses. The old priest took it gratefully, leaning on Aeneas. And then he shook his head. "You were right, Prince Hector. Agamemnon refused to bargain with me."

The Heir Apparent sighed, then said, "Agamemnon is an old fool." He met Chryses' eyes, and tilted his head to the side. "Do not fret. I shall make sure your daughter is returned to you."

Perseus, behind his two friends, cleared his throat. They turned to him, and he scratched his neat beard, before asking. "What of Briseis? Did you see her? Is she safe?"

Hector's frown deepened, and Aeneas' face softened. The old priest nodded. "She resides in Achilles' personal tent. She was outside as I passed. Shackled, but preparing a meal for the warrior prince."

Perseus didn't know how to feel. He supposed he should be glad she was safe. But she was also definitely warming the Prince's bed. At least no harm had come to her. His green eyes latched onto his brother as the oxen eyed man spoke. "I have an idea. To save Chryseis." Hector motioned for him to continue. Aeneas shifted on his feet as the old man leaned more into him. "Godly intervention. Maybe—"

"Surely, you're not suggesting Apollo gets involved are you?" Perseus arched a brow.

Aeneas pursed his lips, before nodding. "Chryses is his priest, after all."

Hector let a few seconds pass, before saying, "It is a good idea. Maybe our only course of action now."

"It's not like we can storm the Greek camp or anything ourselves," Perseus rolled his eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"It's too dangerous," Chryses shook his head. "They would kill you before you made it past the perimeter."

He flashed a wolfish grin at the old man. "Good thing I'm immortal, then."

"You're not sneaking into the enemy camp, Perseus," Hector folded his arms. "Immortal or not, if you're captured, it won't end well for you, or for us."

"What, you don't trust my abilities?" He narrowed his eyes.

"I don't trust your emotions," Hector barked. "Not in this situation. You'll try to get Briseis out, and confront Achilles inevitably, and gods know even you can't hold out against all those skilled warriors. Not alone, at least." Perseus snorted. Hector was a brute, insulting him like that. But his friend was right. He knew him too well.

"Lord Aeneas is right," Chryses stood straighter. "Apollo is my patron. He has not failed me before—" Perseus interrupted, muttering, "Well, that's surprising." "—And he'll not fail me now."

His brother shot his an exasperated glance. "Perseus. None of us here claim to like Apollo, or his methods. But let him try." He scowled, and turned when he felt Hector's hands on his shoulder.

The Prince's face had softened. "Please. If Apollo doesn't work, we can find a way to infiltrate the camp."

Perseus sighed, then shrugged. "Fine." The dark haired man waved at them. "Do it, then." He folded his arms, and Hector nodded, squeezing, and letting go. The curly haired man motioned to Chryses. "After you."

The man nodded, and shaking, extracted himself from Aeneas' arms. He slowly dropped to his knees, leaning on his staff and facing the beach. Perseus' throat bobbed as he watched Chryses shakily raise his staff. Aeneas came to stand beside them in the sand, and whispered. "After this, we have to question him. He entered the Greeks camp, and came out alive. None of our other scouts did. We'll need his knowledge to make further plans and maybe construct a map."

"You're right," Perseus nodded grudgingly. "But let's see what Apollo does about this."

The god hadn't made a reappearance again, since that time on the beach when he'd saved Perseus' life. After ten years of silence, Apollo had stepped in. Perseus was curious, if he was being honest. He wanted to see what Apollo would pull next. Chryses exhaled. "O god of the sun, it is I, your humble servant. Oh, Phoebus Apollo, Protector of Ilius, Protector of men, fair haired and fair judge. I have always adorned your shrine and offered you sacrifices. I have always followed your will and proclaimed your words and warnings to the people. Grant my prayer, and let your arrows avenge these my tears upon the Achaeans, for they have disrespected me, and your power. Show your mighty hand, and return my daughter to me."

Perseus rolled his eyes, huffing, as Chryses slumped down. Aeneas was there, grabbing on to the man before he could collapse into the sand. The green eyed warrior shifted on his feet as the breeze swept through his hair and the salt sprayed on them once more, waves hitting the rock. Nothing. The air was still, the sky clear and the gulls calling to one another as they sailed across the narrow sea. Classic Apollo. After two minutes, Hector scoffed, "Well, that was a colossal waste of time." Chryses crumpled in on himself, no doubt holding back tears. But there was still hope for his daughter. If only Hector would allow him…

"I told you," Perseus' brow creased. "We should make preparations—"

"Look," Aeneas held out a hand to quiet them. It was no wonder his brother had spotted it first, with his keen eyes and his godly sight. The Dardanian King pointed upwards. The sea churned behind them as they followed Aeneas' line of sight. Perseus' gaze landed on the golden hawk, soaring through the sky. It seemed to have materialised from thin air, flapping huge wings. Perseus swore he could hear the beating of said wings from his spot on the rocky shore. His armour weighed down on him and the hairs on the back of his neck rose as the hawk trained its gaze on them, then cocked its head to the side. It let out a shriek of outrage, then flapped away.

Perseus snorted. He knew why the god had come. Not for Chryses or Troy or anything, but for him. Specifically to shame him, and prove him wrong. Apollo was proud. Hades, he gave pride a new meaning. He certainly wouldn't react kindly to Perseus openly doubting him in front of his own Priest and the two other men. Bigot.

They followed the god as he sailed through the air, high above the Greek camp beyond the trees. Perseus grimaced as Apollo shifted mid-flight. His wings extended into arms, claws morphing into feet. His crown of feathers dissolving into windswept blond hair. He was sporting a neatly shaved beard now, and dressed in gold and white robes, decked with armour worthy of the god he was. Blinding, golden armour. Apollo stretched a hand, floating midair, and his bow materialised in his grasp. He drew back the line and an arrow shimmered into existence. Even from where he was standing, he could feel the power rolling off the god, the death radiating from the single arrow he was about to fire. Chryses cried out in joy. Beside him, Hector shuddered, grip on his sword tightening.

"Arrow of death." Below him, Aeneas murmured. The breeze brushed past his long curly hair. His brother in all but blood stood, wonder and a bit of fear creeping into his eyes. "Apollo's about to rain death onto the Greek camp."

"A plague," Perseus surmised. "He'll hit them with a plague until they give back Chryseis." Okay, he was impressed.

Apollo's gaze shifted, then locked onto them, lonely on the beach. It should have been impossible, but Perseus saw his gold eyes blaze. Apollo grinned, mockingly and maniacally, at them from the skies. There was nothing human about his smile. Hector's gaze shifted downwards, unable to look unto the immortal. Aeneas swallowed, then blinked, choosing to focus on the trees instead. But Perseus felt the corners of his lips pull upwards, an answering grin stretching his face. The waves shrieked behind him. But there was nothing friendly in his smile. Not for Apollo. Not anymore. Just acknowledgement. Respect.

Apollo inclined his head, and then released his arrow.

And death followed, to swallow the Greek camp whole.

~ • ~

NINE DAYS. For nine days, Apollo fired arrow after arrow on their camp, from his position in the clouds. Nine days, nine nights. He hovered, striking them down, firing leisurely, seeming almost bored. Achilles slowly peeled himself off his bed, and stretched. He blinked, to chase away the sleep and glanced around. The warrior tuned out the sounds of death coming from around him. The cries and moans of the people, the dying and the diseased. Apollo had sent a plague of death onto them, onto their animals, and their slaves. For nine days, everything had come to a standstill.

The Trojans hadn't attacked, most likely because they knew of their predicament and didn't want to contract anything. He didn't know which sort of diseases had swept over them, but everyone they touched…well, that was the end for the unfortunate man. Achilles' eyes fixed on the pale skinned woman in his sheets. She was sleeping soundly and he felt a smile spread on his face, chasing his erratic thoughts away and softening his expression. Briseis was beautiful. Her shackles lay at the foot of his bed, and he frowned at them. He hated that she had to wear those during the day, even if it was for her own safety. In a camp full of men, those shackles were more liberating than a skeleton key.

His thoughts strayed back to the matter at hand. The dream he had just woken up from.

The High Queen Hera, appearing to him, urging him to call a meeting. To do what needed to be done.

Achilles moved to put on some clothes, passing Briseis and planting a tender kiss on her forehead. She smiled in her sleep, and he grinned. He was happy that she felt safe enough around him to smile, even after all he had done against her Kingdom and family. It had taken a while. She had hated him at the start. Had raged, and tried to escape at every moment. But after a few weeks, she had relaxed. Those long, tumultuous weeks where he'd promised her that no harm would befall her and he would not touch her without her consent.

The prince moved to the tent flap and poked his head out. Sure enough, Phoenix stood on guard outside. "Morning, Phoenix," He called. The General straightened, and Achilles' eyes flitted to the cloth around his face. That was what they had come to. Covering up against the plague. They couldn't run into Troy, and they couldn't risk carrying the diseases back with them to Greek soil. Phoenix' response was barely audible through his makeshift nose mask, but Achilles waved it aside. "Call an assembly, would you? Get all the Kings in the Command Tent. Immediately."

"It shall be done, My Lord," Phoenix bowed, and bustled away. Achilles moved back inside, and moved to the mannequin which bore his armour and tunic. He began strapping it on, slowly, and thought of what he would say to the contingent of greek kings currently gathering at his behest. They had to get to the root of the problem. They had offered many sacrifices, killed all the animals which they could spare to appease the god Apollo.

But the sun would not be won over. Day after day, he had burned brightly overhead, almost too bright to look at, radiating pure power and anger as his arrows of death hit mark after mark, never missing. Achilles did not know why Agamemnon was still alive. It was he, after all who had slighted the Olympian. Perhaps Apollo knew that if Agamemnon fell, the Greek forces would be scattered into chaos, leaderless. Perhaps Zeus had banned him from taking down the key players in this game they were in. This dance which had taken away so much from them all. Achilles didn't know. He wouldn't dare presume he knew the will of the gods, or what drove them. But he was glad he was still alive, and as he finally draped his white cloak over his shoulders, he exhaled.

Agamemnon had to return Chryseis. Hera had implied as much. That was the only way the Father of Medicine would then be pacified. But Agamemnon was a stubborn brute. Achilles knew he wouldn't listen. Not unless his hand was forced. He stormed out of the tent, and instantly two soldiers fell into step behind him. He glanced back, at a just returned Phoenix, and Patroclus, who sent him a reassuring smile. Achilles smiled back at his best friend, then turned forward to focus at the task which lay before him. Convincing the son of Atreus to let the girl go.

The three men walked, through the sand, weaving through tents. The air was putrid, and smelled of sick. Achilles' stomach rolled. He could smell death, all around him. His eyes flickered across the camp, then landed on the hill of bodies at the very edge of the beach. Still growing. Already rotting.

Soon to pass on to the Underworld, like they had been doing for all the others who had come before them these nine days.

They passed by the newly constructed medic tent, and Achilles grimaced when the crying reached his ears. Grown men, in so much pain and terror, knowing they could not be saved. Men who had fought and killed and survived for ten years, fighting to see their families again. All of them, reduced to sobbing, decaying messes as death swallowed them whole. He shook his head, cursing Agamemnon's name once more. "We're here," Patroclus muttered. Achilles glanced up as he neared the tent, its entrance guarded by two Spartan warriors. Menelaus' men. He could hear the shouting from inside. "You guys wait out here," Achilles nodded to the men, then marched inside.

He was the last to arrive, but it seemed the meeting was already underway. The Kings were roaring at each other, arguing, debating and screaming. Agamemnon sat, rubbing his temples in annoyance as around the table, the wardens of Greece slammed fists into the wood and fought amongst one another. Achilles cleared his throat, a hand on his sword. The men paid him no heed. He turned to the herald beside him and inclined this head. The servant nodded, then in a booming voice, proclaimed, "Announcing Prince Achilles, Son of King Peleus and Heir Apparent to the Throne of the Myrmidons of Phthia." The shouting dimmed slightly, like a drunk man coming down from his high, and slowly, the blond man ambled towards his reserved seat between Diomedes and Ajax. As he neared his seat, the talking ceased. But tensions were running high, and Achilles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Gods above, is this what you lot have become?" He took a seat. "A writhing mess of squabbling children?"

"Oh, get on with it, Goldilocks," Agamemnon rolled his eyes. "You arrive late to your own meeting?"

Achilles refused to take the bait. His chest rose, then fell. "You all know why we're here. But I don't see what there is to argue about. Our men are dying. Give it two more days, and we'll be following them to Hades. You've offended a god, Agamemnon, so get off your high horse, and do what you know is right." He bared his teeth at the High King.

"There is no fairness to this," Agamemnon's eyes blazed. "Why must I be the one to give up my war prize? When you all have two, maybe even five, warming your beds and your cocks all evening."

"Oh, come off it, brother," Menelaus' hands enclosed into fists on the table. "Don't be stupid. There will be others. The war is yet to end. She is not the only one you have, either."

"I am not giving up the girl," Agamemnon pounded his own fist into the table. "Apollo can—"

"Careful," Diomedes warned.

"He still flies high above us," Odysseus said, ever so calmly. "It would be wise to watch your words." Agamemnon's nostrils flared. But he remained quiet. Achilles released a sigh.

"It is not a matter of fairness, or who you're bedding. This is about your pride, Agamemnon," He added as much ice to his words as he could muster. "And if you're fine with Thanatos coming for you and your soldiers because of it, then fine by me. But not my men. Not my people." He clenched this jaw. "This isn't about you and what you want."

"He's right," Lesser Ajax picked his nails with a small knife, his legs crossed. "Our men are dying. And we're all going to die soon. You either hand over the girl to her father or I walk away."

"You wouldn't dare—" Agamemnon couldn't stop the shock on his face as Nestor, his most trusted counsellor, shook his head and cut him off. "He's right. Release the girl or my people fight no more."

"I've been missing home lately, anyway," Diomedes drawled from beside Achilles. "I wouldn't mind cutting this expedition short, to be honest." Agamemnon snarled.

"Okay," Odysseus' assessing and calculating voice came to their ears before a full on riot could explode around the table. "Okay, I have an idea. Agamemnon is right, in his own twisted and selfish ways," He rolled his eyes. "But we cannot allow this to continue. I suggest a vote."

Silence.

Odysseus wasn't deterred. "We are a council of kings. We are allies in this never ending war. And though you might be our leader, Agamemnon, we are not simply here to do your bidding, especially with all our lives on the line."

"This is nonsense," The High King hissed, angrily. But Achilles knew that the man could see the wisdom in Odysseus' words. The High King passed Menelaus a scathing glare. "Even my own blood speaks against me. How can I expect anyone on this table to do so?"

"Well, My King," Odysseus grinned mockingly. "What's it going to be?"

Agamemnon's vein pulsed. And then his gaze landed on Achilles and his lips curled. The Prince shook his head in warning; he knew that the King was looking for someone to blame. The man exhaled, then stood. He burned holes into Achilles' head with his stare, before his gaze shifted to the other Greeks. One by one, Agamemnon stared each of them down. "I really have no allies on this table, do I?"

"If you gave us the respect we deserve, perhaps that would not be so," Achilles piped, narrowing his eyes at the other man.

"Fine then," The son of Atreus shook his head. "Chryseis will be returned with a squadron of my men to her father immediately. Odysseus, you shall go along with them." He paused. Achilles felt relief fill him. He had done it. They were saved. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the goddess Hera. "But—" The fair haired warrior rolled his eyes. Trust this bastard to have another thing up his sleeve. "As compensation, I will be taking your own war prize, Achilles. Permanently." Achilles stilled. And then his head swam.

"What?" He wasn't sure he had heard correctly.

Achilles felt his blood roar, rushing to his head, his eyes crossing as he drew himself out of his seat slowly—as he realised what exactly Agamemnon was saying. His heart stuttered in his chest. And then rage replaced his shock. Furious, Achilles drew his sword and levelled it at the Mycenaean King. "You have no right to do that. You do not touch Briseis."

"I am the High King," Agamemnon reminded. "And over here, even if you do not bow to me, I am still the leader of this exercise. You all answer to me."

"Touch her and you die," His voice was low, but venomous.

"Fallen in love with the slave girl, have we?" Agamemnon taunted.

"Brother…" Menelaus warned.

"I don't think a civil war is the best thing for us right now," Abantes grimaced.

"Would anyone deny me this?" Agamemnon asked around the table. "To stand against me now, twice. I would not forget." Silence. Nothing. Even Odysseus looked down.

Achilles saw stars dance across his eyes and he had to hold on to the table to keep upright. Agamemnon clapped. Two men, Argive soldiers, marched in. The High King kept his eyes on Achilles as he said, "Fetch me the slave girl from Prince Achilles' tent. She is to be well guarded across the camp to my own tent. Immediately." Baiting him, Achilles realised. Daring him. The two men bowed and hurried out.

He had made a promise. He would not see it broken. Achilles sheathed his sword, and without a word, spun on his heel then darted out of the tent.

He ran into Phoenix and Patroclus outside, and they fell into step behind him once more as he marched towards his own tent. This time he ignored the scent of death and decay. His fury pushed him, his hair billowing around his face as he stormed through the camp and towards his sleeping quarters. "Achilles," Patroclus' voice was hard. "What's wrong?"

He didn't answer. Not until Patroclus asked a second time. He tore his eyes aware from the tent they were steadily approaching, and fixed his wrath-filled gaze onto his best friend. "They're going to take her away. For Agamemnon. I must protect her." Patroclus swore. The scream reached them a second later, and Achilles quickened his footsteps. He drew his sword as they approached and behind him so did his companions. He could feel the attention of the camp on them, and was dimly aware of the fact that the High King and most of the others had stormed out after him, right on his heels.

They drew to a stop in front of his tent as the men appeared from inside, five of them, the two Agamemnon had ordered hauling a screaming Briseis outside. She was still naked, and his eyes danced around her body for any sign of injury. The redness of her right cheek made Achilles' heart swell in anger. He levelled his sword at the men. "Let her go." Briseis sobbed.

"Achilles," Odysseus called. "A civil war—"

"I don't care about a civil war," He whirled to snarl at the other man. "I will kill every Argive in front of me if you don't order them to let her go." The men had drawn weapons, and Achilles locked his gaze onto Agamemnon.

The King's mouth twitched. "You kill any of my men, I will butcher yours." Another rush of blood. "You might be unkillable, son of Peleus. But your men are not."

"Achilles," Diomedes moved forward as though to placate him. A scathing glare sent him backwards.

Achilles' mind whirled. They couldn't. He wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't allow them to take her. Agamemnon's eyes glinted dangerously. "Who do you think would win, then?" He taunted. "If a civil war were to break out. More than half of these men are oath bound to me." He was right. Achilles couldn't stand against 50 city-states and win. He'd be the only Myrmidon left standing. And that was if they didn't find out how he could be killed. He tried to keep from panicking. He tried to come up with a solution. The man felt the sea breeze waft through his nose. Mother help me, he thought.

Enough of this nonsense. An idea sparked to life, and Achilles lowered his weapon. He turned, fully to face Agamemnon, even as Briseis sobbed and the hands on her body tightened. Pain roiled in his stomach. Achilles tossed his sword at Agamemnon's feet. "Okay," He swallowed. Behind him, Patroclus, glaring at everyone, didn't lower his weapon. Neither did Phoenix. "Okay, you can take her." Across the tents, the waves roared. "Take her, Agamemnon, and I will fight no more." The effect of his words were instantaneous, rippling across the gathered lines of men. Even Patroclus looked shocked. Agamemnon recoiled.

"Take her and you lose this war," He cocked his head to the side. "My men and I are going home." They needed him. They wouldn't risk what his departure would mean. The High King scowled and Achilles exhaled. "It's your call."

Agamemnon was silent, no doubt the rusted gears in his head turning. And then he spoke. "Well, then. Have a safe journey, and a nice life." He whirled on his feet, and behind him, Briseis cried out as the men made to follow.

Achilles didn't stop them. He watched, sword in the dust, a storm raging inside him, as one by one, the Kings dispersed. He watched, as Agamemnon took his heart away from him, her shoulders sagged, resigned to her fate.

~ • ~

HE WENT ON his knees in the sand, and the salt from the sea sprayed onto him. He welcomed it. "Mother," His voice cracked. He felt her, then. That otherworldly presence, that godly aura. The scent of the sea intensifying. She looked beautiful, and younger than him. Her hair fell in ringlets around her face, skin tinted blue, gossamer dress billowing in the breeze. But her eyes were rimmed red; she had been crying.

"Mother," He repeatedly hoarsely. "What ails you?"

She reached out, touching his cheek. He leaned into her touch. "It is nothing, my dear. I worry for you, that is all. You have something to ask of me?"

He nodded, sharply. "Agamemnon…today, he took away someone very dear to me."

Thetis smiled sadly, "I saw."

"I need you," He clutched her hands, and squeezed. "I need you to help me, mother." He lifted his face to the sky, finding it empty. Apollo was gone. Chryseis was gone. "Agamemnon insulted me today. It must not go unpunished. Plead to Jove on my behalf. Ask Zeus to bring the Greeks to the breaking point. Let him show them what happens when I do not fight their battles. Let Agamemnon know that he needs me."

Thetis squeezed back. "You could go home, my son. You said you would go home."

"You know I did not mean it," He whispered. "Please." He paused. His eyes shone with tears. "Let them bring her back."

Thetis sighed, resignation taking over her features. "Alright. Okay. I shall try."

"Thank you." But she was already gone, dissolving into salt and allowing the breeze to carry her away to sea. Achilles leaned into the ghost of her touch, and then buried his head into his hands.

~ • ~

PERSEUS inclined his head when he felt the stifling power appear from beside him. Selene's hair was unbound, and his lips parted as he took her in. Eyes glowing, black hair cascading down her face, wrapped in a black cloak. Her pink lips curled up in a smile. "You called for me?"

The man nodded grimly. "I did. I knew screaming your name in my head at odd hours would work." She let lose a laugh, and was it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard, like jingling bells. He turned back towards the seas, to hide his red face. Selene did things to him he didn't think she would understand. Hades, neither did he. Even after they'd cleared the air over the peck he'd given her all those months ago.

"I'm a son of Poseidon," He said, still staring at the waves. Getting to the matter at hand.

"You are," She acknowledged. "And this is relevant because?"

He shot her a small exasperated look. Her face remained blank, but he could see the amusement dancing in her eyes. "Okay, go on, Perseus."

"I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner," He shook his head. He was dumb. He was bloody dumb. And he could have ended this years ago. "You know…you know what happened to my mother. You know about my…feelings for Poseidon." Selene's power flared as she nodded, and she motioned for him to continue.

"I need you to find me a teacher," He turned to face the titaness, locking his gaze onto her. His green eyes blazed. "It's time to embrace my heritage. I need to learn my powers. I need to find out why my father did what he did."

He saw realisation dawn on her, as she also came to see the plan that had been forming in his mind for the past nine days. The Greek camp lay right on the beach, with a wall blocking them out of view, surrounding the encampment. With their food stores, ships, tents, men, all in the camp. With their backs to the ocean, his greatest power. His greatest enemy.

"So you'll gain control of the raging sea," Selene said, quietly, impressed. He faced her, nodding grimly.

"And then use it crush every last one of them."

A/N — Well, I think 6.5k words is a lot to put myself back out there. I hope you enjoyed reading. Tell me what you think.

Happy Holidays!