GUESS WHO'S BACK?

AENEAS had never felt emptier. Quite literally, in fact. He had cried so much in the past few hours alone that he didn't think there were any more tears left to shed. It was disconcerting, but now he just sat at the edge of the balcony, looking down at the vast kingdom before him, dotted with little fires and figures in black; the air pierced every few seconds by wailing and shrieking. Troy was in a state of perpetual misery, and again, Aeneas felt that deep aching within him, a kind of sorrow that threatened to wrap its bony hands around his neck and drag him into an endless black hole of torment.

Aeneas let out a sigh. Oh, Hector. He missed him. It hadn't even been a week, but he missed him so much. Hector and Perseus had been his family. They had been his world. He didn't know what he was supposed to do now that half of it had been torn away. But his brother-in-law had died a worthy death. Wherever Hector had gone, Aeneas knew he would be glad, at least, that he had gone down fighting, protecting what he loved, sacrificing himself for the good of Troy—for the good of Aeneas himself.

But still, it hurt. Hector going forward to meet Achilles when—in that big golden heart of his—he had known he was going to die? It was equivalent to the late Crown Prince driving a sword into Aeneas' own chest and then twisting it in to bury it deeper so it tore through his armour and came out the other side. He didn't even know how he would begin to move past this. He couldn't. Deep inside him, he knew it would be near impossible.

He had come to his chambers with his wife next to three hours ago, unable to stand the endless anguish and agony that came with watching Priam cry into his hands or Hecuba try and maintain her composure as Hector's body was lit on fire. Unable to watch, without having a nervous breakdown, as Hector slowly burnt into ashes, passing from this world into the next. Watching the fire, it felt like his own heart and soul had been torched alongside it. He couldn't stop shaking. He couldn't stop crying silently, then. And talking about his best friend in front of the thousands of Trojans in the past tense…it had destroyed him. It didn't help that Perseus, when he arrived, had only just sat before the fiery pyre, sobbing into the earth. Aeneas couldn't bring himself to speak to him, too overwhelmed by his own grief. So he paid his respects, and then he left.

He hoped Hector got the message he had placed on his burning remains, wherever he was. He prayed Hades had mercy on his soul and then tried to go to sleep.

But for some reason, Hypnos insisted on eluding him that evening. Because how could he sleep peacefully, knowing that as the last of his ashes spread across the wind, Hector had appeared on the bank of the Styx, had paid the ferryman, and then gone to face judgment?

And so he had gone to his balcony, to stare dejectedly at the city he loved so much and the monsters from across the sea who threatened to pull it down to the ground. They were celebrating, that much was clear. Mourning, too, but across the dunes, if he concentrated hard, Aeneas knew he would hear the jingling of beads and tambourines and peals of laughter.

There was no laughter left within the city walls.

Aeneas didn't think he would laugh again, ever.

They made his blood boil, those Greeks. It also made another wave of his grief slam into him without remorse, knocking his breath away and making his lungs collapse. Aeneas felt his eyes pool with fresh tears. He'd been wrong, then. A wretched sob escaped his lips. Was this how much it had hurt? When Perseus woke at four summers alone on a random island and realised his mother had died at his father's hand? Would he be forced to look every day at the little things around him—like the knife strapped to his thigh, gifted to him by his best friend—or even the big ones, like his wife, without seeing her older brother in her face and her eyes, the very man who had introduced them and made sure their union had happened?

Hades, he and Hector had even wed on the same day.

Oh, Hector. Blasted, foolhardy, headstrong git. Fair, worthy, brave Hector.

Aeneas buried his head into his hands. His throat burned. "How could you, Hector? How could you leave us like this?" For next to ten years, he had seen comrades, friends, brothers and his own soldiers fall around him in battle. But it had never hit so close to home. Nobody had warned him, ever, that it would hurt so much that he would feel like letting go of the balustrade and plummeting to his death to be rid of the endless depth of pain he had tripped and fallen into.

The demigod sniffed. He was a grown man. He shouldn't be sobbing like a child.

Hector deserved more. Hector deserved to be celebrated, his greatness and his bravery proclaimed throughout all the kingdoms of the world. He needed to be permanently etched into the tomes of history so that progeny would remember the valiant Prince who had held the reins of his kingdom, keeping it from falling apart at the seams when mongrels like Achilles and the Achaeans had threatened to rip it to shreds.

He felt a hand on his shoulder then, and stiffened, as her scent, vanilla and roses, assaulted his nostrils. His grief had made him lax.

How had he not sensed her arrival?

Aeneas tilted his head slightly to face her, his visage no doubt unworthy of her blood running through his veins. He was dirty, sleep-deprived and wrecked. His mother's lips pulled up in a sad smile as the King of Dardania gave her a forlorn look in response.

"Aeneas," Her voice washed over him smoothly, sounding like tingling bells, chasing away his sorrows and beating down his feelings of utter desolation. Aphrodite looked as beautiful as ever, red hair bright and burning, eyes glinting in the moonlight. She was dressed in all-black robes of mourning, accentuated with gold jewellery, the bright cherry red of her lips stark against her gossamer skin.

"I cannot bear it anymore, mater," He rasped, his dam threatening to spill once more, and she sighed, pulling him in close and burying his head into her gown. "It hurts."

"I know," She said, soothingly.

"He's dead." It sent a new wave of pain and realisation, making him shudder.

"I know," she murmured, running a soothing hand through his hair.

"He was my best friend."

"I know, Aeneas. Death is quite an ugly thing." His mother paused, then offered the most logical explanation to the raging sea of emotions surging through him, "And for someone of your heritage, as my son, your emotions are…heightened—they always have been. You feel things, so much more than the world around you." Her presence and aura writhed around him, slowly soothing his aching heart and mending his frayed nerves.

Aeneas shook his head. He didn't want to. He didn't want to feel this immeasurable pain anymore. But he knew that even without Aphrodite's blood, it wouldn't hurt any less.

The goddess continued, "You must be strong, Aeneas. You must work at moving on and recovering. You cannot keep this grief forever."

"I tire of all this, mother. How can I stay strong," He murmured, "When Hector is gone? When my foundation has been swept out from beneath me?" He could feel the tears leaking into her black peplos, and it was a surprise that she did not pull away. He could not recall a time that he had ever been this close to his mother—that they had ever spoken so freely like this. It hurt, that it had taken his best friend's demise for his mother to care about his wellbeing.

The curly-haired man felt her take his head out of her dress, and her hands slid down his hair to his cheeks, pulling his head up until her ever-changing eyes were boring into his. "You have to, Aeneas. You cannot fight your emotions, but you can work with them. Your emotions are your power. You learn how to control them, and find Poseidon's son Perseus. Together you must battle your grief. You need to be strong, Aeneas. Not just for yourself. For Hector, too. So you both can avenge him, by killing Achilles."

"I will kill Achilles," Aeneas pulled his head away, then gazed at the horizon, towards the beach. "I promised Hector. I promised Priam. We'll kill him." He paused, sniffing and wiping away his tears, for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day. "Briseis says she knows a way. But I do not know how we would even get close enough. I, for one, have no powers to aid me. Not like Perseus does."

Aphrodite stiffened, and Aeneas watched with interest and mild sluggish confusion as her eyes blazed. Her aura became almost suffocating. Her next words showed that she felt insulted. "Do not be a fool, Aeneas."

He arched a brow at her. Well, as well as a wretched-looking, tearful, crestfallen man could. But he couldn't help the way his heart stung at her words. "You are even more powerful than that boy you call brother could ever hope to be. What runs through your veins can destroy cities, Aeneas. You can level mountains, end and start wars." She pulled away, waving her hand in the general direction of the camp of those Grecian scum, delicately. "You can make even the great son of Thetis—that Achilles, bow at your feet. Do not think, even for a second, that you are weak, or useless." Her nose wrinkled in disgust, as though affronted that he could even fathom such unreasonable things.

"Great pep-talk," He said wearily, burying his head into his hands. "But it does not change the facts of the matter."

"If only you knew," She shook her head. Aeneas glared at the goddess and demanded scornfully, his sorrow momentarily replaced by irritation, "What is it, then? This power I have never seen or used before?"

"And who says that is so?" The incarnation of love shot back. "You are my son, Aeneas. How do you think you got Achilles to release Hector's body? How do you think he let you go with the love of his life, that servant princess? What, you figured it was out of the goodness of his heart?" Her voice was condescending; for once, Aeneas was sick of it.

He scoffed at her. "I find myself tired of your riddles, mother."

"This," Her hands held him again, moving to his neck. A red fingernail traced his skin. "This is the most powerful weapon you could ever wield."

"My throat," He pulled away from her, shuffling across the railing.

"Your voice, Aeneas," Aphrodite was cross. He could tell as much, as she rolled her eyes at him. His doubt grew at her words. He did not have the time to break away from his mourning to play her silly games of 'guess the power.'

"It is called charm-speak. Whatever you say, people do. Whatever you whisper, people follow. It takes hold of minds, wills and actions. You can control man and monster alike, should you learn to wield it. Maybe with time, even gods."

It took a lot of effort not to fall off the balcony.

Aeneas turned his head to face her, dubiously. "What you're saying I'm telepathic? Like a witch?"

"Like a mind controller," She corrected. "I can teach you, Aeneas. I can show you how to reduce men like Achilles to nothing, with just your tongue."

"Something I imagine you're good at," He shot her a condescending look.

"That's wildly inappropriate," She grumbled. Aeneas observed his mother. She looked like she was being honest. But he knew Aphrodite, not as much as he'd like to, but he knew her all the same. She was a manipulator, like all the gods before her. Like all the men who played dress-up and called themselves kings. Like Apollo. Like Odysseus and Agamemnon.

Like Zeus, or Jove or whatever he went by these days.

Gods never offered to help mortals unless they got something in return. The question burning at the back of his mind made its way to the tip of his tongue and forced itself out of his throat. "But why?"

Aphrodite had the gall to look thrown off by his question. Aeneas let loose a small laugh, shaking his head. His heart ached, whether out of grief or surprise at his stupidity, he couldn't tell. What had he been thinking, baring himself to her like he'd done?

"Why now, Mother? I'm almost an old man. You've had next to thirty-six summers to get involved, yet you never did. You never even spoke to me until you needed something." That old, disgusting wound ripped open in him once more. He had thought it had been buried. He thought he had gotten over it. But he'd been wrong. His anger bubbled as he continued, "You reached out when you wanted Paris delivered to Troy." Aphrodite shook her head, and he could tell that even she knew, now, that his woes were about more than her poor parenting. "I know gods have this whole uninvolved shit going on. I get it. But Paris? You chose him as your champion, Aphrodite. Why come to me now? What do you hope to gain?"

She drew back, but Aeneas continued glaring at her. The love goddess shook her head once more, dazedly. "Aeneas, there are ancient laws forbidding direct interference in mortal lives. Especially when said mortals are your own blood. The repercussions—"

"Fuck the repercussions," He snarked. "That didn't stop you gods from joining the battle so many times already. That didn't stop you from laying waste to my men and the Achaeans. That didn't stop Apollo from making Perseus immortal and meddling in our lives since we were four!"

But still, no matter how much he hated the god of the sun, at least Apollo had been there. And even though she had saved his life on the battlefield a few times, Apollo had basically raised him. Unfortunately for her, he didn't think a few well-timed swoops made up for it. It didn't cancel out.

"I love you, Aeneas," Aphrodite said breathily. She looked uncomfortable. Aeneas didn't think she had ever been confronted about something like this in her long immortal life. "You know that, right?"

His face darkened. "I'm afraid you can't seduce your way out of this one."

The redhead barked out a small laugh and clambered daintily up the balcony railing so they were both hanging off the intricately designed marble, then looked sideways at her son. They both faced the dark dreadful night and the mourning city. Aeneas sighed, feeling his anger diffusing as quickly as it had appeared. "I know, Mother. I know you love me. I just wish you knew how to show it more."

The redheaded woman leaned down into him. Aphrodite exhaled, and Aeneas continued, "You left me. On Ida with nymphs, until I was four. Your heavy shame about bedding my father is the reason he's crippled. You sent gifts, sure. Through Apollo. But no swords and no number of lyres can replace you." His voice was sad. Melancholic. "I needed a mother. I needed you, and you were never there." Aphrodite patted his knees awkwardly and sombrely. She still looked ethereal and windswept seated on the parapets. He didn't know how she managed it.

"I am sorry you feel this way," she told him, quietly. "But let no one say I do not care for my children. However self-centred people proclaim me to be, I care. I have watched you, Aeneas, every single moment I could. From the moment you were conceived, I knew you were made for incredible things. You are my greatest source of pride in this era. Maybe not counting my reflection but still—" He laughed. Aphrodite managed a smile. "I named Paris my champion because Aeneas…You are more than any champion I could ever hope to have. You are my son." She looked up at him. "I called you to deliver him to Troy because I trust you. I trusted you to deliver him safely. I trusted you to teach him all you knew. I am here now because I want to help you fulfil your destiny. I want to guide you on the path to greatness." He eyed her. She looked sincere enough.

"The ancient laws…I have been threatened so many times for nudging things in your favour. I am sorry that you could not see them. Ida was the only place I could watch you without the other gods coming for my head. And truly, your father's condition saddens me greatly. But it could not have been helped. And I sent you gifts…I did not know they would make the pain of my absence more felt." A lone tear ran down his cheek. Aeneas laughed, wiping it away. Gods, he was always crying these days. His mother wiped his tears away with her soft hands.

"You are god-born, Aeneas. My ichor made you. One day, if you and your brother win this war, you will expand the city of Troy worldwide. If the Fates decide to be cruel and Troy is lost, you will escape, I will ensure it. You will travel many lands, and sire a line as great as the heroes of old. Your descendants will dominate the world. They will be greater than Troy, than even Greece and the Achaeans. Their empire will stand for thousands and thousands of years."

Aphrodite's eyes blazed. "History will remember you, Aeneas, and through you, they will remember me. Because you are a part of me, and I am a part of you." His heart burned, her words stoking the embers of a fire which had slowly been dying out and turning them into roaring flames.

Aeneas heard a loud rumble and glanced at the beach to see the sea rise, about to swallow the Greek camp.

Perseus was angry. Perseus was acting.

It was his time to act too.

"Remember, Aeneas. Love is the most powerful force of all. Love started this war and launched a thousand ships to your shores. Love conquers Death, war, and every evil nasty thing from Pandora's pithos. When you feel weak and useless, remember that I am with you, always and forever. And remember, love can either save the world…or burn it to ashes." As she faded into mist, her words echoed in his mind.

And Perseus' wave came crashing down.

BREAK

PERSEUS staggered back in mild shock as he felt the weight of the sea wrenched from his grasp. It wasn't shock that his wave had been stopped no; it was the suddenness of it all. The way his hold on his power had just…paused. His surprise came fast, shooting up from his chest before his eyes narrowed and he glared at the Greek camp. Before he could even fathom a response to the blatant disregard for his power, the water was pushed back to its boundaries, even though the screams of the Achaeans did not cease.

Perseus clenched his fist. He had thought he was strong enough to drag them all to a watery Hades. But now there was someone else, showing him that although he was Poseidon's son, the sea was not just his to command.

He needed to get stronger.

So he could prove them wrong.

So he could drown the Greeks and end Troy's sorrows once and for all.

Selene had stiffened beside him, and a surprisingly long string of swears escaped her lips as she exchanged a glance with Perseus. They both turned back to the shore and Perseus could just make out the three figures standing at the banks of the ocean, clothes and hair billowing around them. One seemed to wear a crown of crabs—clearly female. The second woman had a bluish tint to her skin. The third was male, and he held a smaller version of Poseidon's trident.

They all seemed to be looking at him. Their eyes seemed to glow. Whether with anger or a show of power or both, he could not tell.

"It seems your father's wife has taken a stance in this war," Selene observed. "I imagine Thetis called for the help of her sister and nephew."

"No surprise there," Perseus kept his posture rigid as hatred bubbled inside him, gaze still trained on the intruding deities. As one, they all turned, and meandered through the sea, sinking deeper as they went. "You think this would be a good time to try again? I can still do it, I think."

"Definitely not," Selene shook her head. "They would just keep retaliating, locking you in an endless game of cat and mouse." No matter how much the reality of the situation angered him, Perseus could tell she was right. He watched, as his mother's killer and her compatriots sunk back into the depths.

Then he allowed his shoulders to fall and sank onto the stone wall. He was more drained than he'd expected. From the mourning, then the anger and now the outrageous use of his gifts. "I'll have to meet with Galateia. Learn more. So next time Amphitrite can't stand in my way." And there would be a next time.

"Of course," Selene nodded, leaning down next to him. They were quiet for a bit, and he reached out, taking her left hand in his right. His mind was racing, with thoughts, ploys, ideas, and memories. Memories of every excruciating second he had spent with the late Crown Prince. Memories of his best friend. His dead friend.

The Greeks were racing about, doing gods-knew-what, and the green-eyed man felt Selene's gaze shift to him. "How're you feeling?"

"Depressed," He chuckled. "Angry, mostly. At the Greeks. At Hector. At Amphitrite. Myself." The list was long. But it always ended with him.

"You know it's not your fault, Perseus," She clenched his hand in hers.

"But it is," His breathing stuttered. "Don't you see? It is my fault. Because I was so absorbed in my own issues, I didn't see my brother was hurting."

"You couldn't have stopped it," She said, fiercely. "You could not have stopped it, if it was the will of the fates. You know that. So do not go blaming yourself and spiralling into that self-loathing you're so fond of. I will not allow it."

His face softened and he looked down at her hands, gripping his like a vice.

Selene soldiered on, "You know what Hector would have wanted? He would have wanted you to get up, from the depths of your grief. He wouldn't have wanted you blaming yourself for every single mishap. Hector would have told you to get your head out of the bloody sand and fight to save the city he died for. Because that is who you are, Perseus; that is why I love you. You always get up again. And this outrage cannot go unanswered."

He laughed hollowly, "You're extra wild tonight," He kissed her hand. "Alright. I promise I won't break. And you're right. Hector doesn't deserve this. His name should be screamed to the world from every bloody mountain. He should be celebrated. And he should be avenged."

Selene nodded. Perseus looked at her again for the millionth time that night. He had been looking, but he hadn't really been seeing.

This Titaness was his world. She was his rock. Being with her made him unravel in the best ways possible, and she was always there to put him back together again. She was always there for him and his people, and he had taken her for granted for far too long. It ended tonight.

Hector's passing had reminded him of a scary thing. Immortal or not, death was always hovering. Whether falling in battle or fading into nonexistence, it was one and the same. And right then, he didn't care about the battles awaiting him or the many Greeks screaming for his head across the dunes. Selene was now. Selene was always. Selene was his forever.

Overcome by emotion, he pulled her into a tight embrace. She squeezed him back, with probably even more strength than he did her. He buried his head into her hair, inhaling her, wanting this moment to last forever. But she pulled away.

"Did I hear you say you love me?" The man took her face in his hands, voice lilting teasingly.

"I was wondering when you would bring that up," She smiled innocently. Perseus laughed. It was funny how he still had it in him to laugh after everything that had happened. But this woman before him brought out just the best in him. And he wouldn't change her for the world. He was about to speak when she raised a hand, silencing him.

"One more thing," Selene told him. "I have an idea, that will help Troy in the coming battles. I can call in a favour from some…work friends."

He tilted his head to the side. "I'm listening."

She told him her plans and ideas, and Perseus pulled her closer.

"What would I do without you?" He shook his head. Her plan was unbelievable but it might just work.

"Probably die in a hundred thousand different artful ways," Selene teased.

"I love you," He kissed her then, sweetly, soft. His heart had been burning for her from the moment he had seen her that fateful day on Delos. But he had been refusing to listen. No more. "I'm sorry it took me my whole life to realise it. I love you, Selene." Because Hector had passed, and no matter how much he had cried, how hard it hurt, his best friend had managed to teach him one last thing. He was done waiting. From now on, he was snatching this bloody life by its golden horns. He was taking all immortality had to offer. He would kill Achilles. He would save Troy.

He would live, and through him, Hector would live too. Through him, his people would be eternal.

BREAK

THE AMAZONS arrived a week later as Selene had promised.

They came through the mountain passes, the day after Hector's funeral games had ended. However unexpected, they were a welcome surprise, and he was sure Selene received almost three thousand sacrifices and praises that day alone.

Perseus stood behind King Priam at the table of the royal family as the amazons dined on fine wine and all the delicacies Troy could offer in the Great Hall. His eyes travelled to the vacant seat beside Priam's and he winced. Hector had left a hole in all their hearts, and it didn't matter how long had passed; he knew that hole would never be full again.

He stole a glance at his brother, who sat sombrely beside his wife, picking at his food, and Perseus' expression softened. Aeneas had sought him out the day after the funeral, and this time there had been no sobbing. There had only plotting and planning. Now more than ever, they both needed to be strong. For each other. He wished he could be standing beside the son of Aphrodite, so he could put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. So he could tell him that even if Hector was gone, he, Perseus was never going anywhere. Literally.

But his duty came first. And right now, his duty was to see that the Royal family, Queen Penthesileia, and her entourage were well guarded. The green-eyed man scanned the room once more. The amazons were mighty warriors. Famed and fabled for their exploits throughout the world. Renowned for their beauty and their callousness on the battlefield. It was exactly like Selene had promised. And hopefully, they would be enough to turn the tide of this bloody war they were in.

They were a rather noisy bunch, Perseus mused to himself.

Whereas Artemis' hunters were reserved and hated men with every fibre of their being, the Amazonians were cavorting freely with the Trojans, open and welcoming after a long week of travel. He had expected some distrust of men from them. After all, not more than two decades ago, Heracles had deceived their Queen Hippolyta, stolen her belt and caused her death at her younger sister Penthesileia's hand, a mere wisp of a girl then. But the son of Zeus' antics clearly hadn't birthed a hatred for his species in their hearts. They were not opposed to a bit of fun, it seemed.

Amidst the music, Perseus wondered what Selene had done for these women which could warrant her uprooting them from their homes and bringing them to battle. He supposed he would ask her later. His thoughts drifted again to the Queen seated next to Hecuba and on Aeneas' left. She was still clad in the celestial bronze armour of her people, with her helmet placed,—rather rudely, he thought— on the dining table. A gold knife lay on her lap and her white cloak was draped on the chair beside her. In her free hand, she held a knife, twirling it idly and occasionally impaling it into the fine wood like those Anglo-Saxon barbarians at the edge of the known world were said to do.

But the Queen was not a savage. No, Ares' daughter carried herself with as much grace as any of the ladies in Priam's court. Her eyes flickered across the room as she answered a question from Deiphobus, and met his. She took a spoonful of food and smiled at him. Perseus tried not to look too alarmed. However demure she appeared, that smile, those eyes…Penthesileia was a lioness, grinning at her prey before she devoured it.

As she turned back to her food, Perseus smiled silently to himself, sending a prayer of thanks to Selene for her resourcefulness. He knew, that any warrior on the battlefield come dawn would rue the day they clashed swords with the lioness of Amazon. He had a feeling they were going to be great friends.

BREAK

HE MET WITH Galateia a few hours past midnight, at their usual spot far away from the Greek camps. For the past week, he'd been ramping up his skills, with her help, pushing himself to his limits, training with Selene and the Nereid. The water almost felt like part of him now, a sort of extension of his body. It felt…natural. He was of the sea, and after spending so much time refusing his heritage, suddenly having all his senses improved, feeling all the water in the air around him was almost overwhelming.

Galateia had been mad with glee when they had met seven days prior. She was proud, that her pupil had been able to lift the whole sea off the ground. And she had whispered that his father had been watching at that moment—even more proud than she was—that he had managed it. Now, all he needed to learn was how to summon the ocean's power to do his will without tiring out completely. Had he been a normal demigod, the effort would have probably killed him or weakened him severely. But he was immortal, and technically, he should have no limit.

Galateia had droned on about how her sister Thetis had called for Poseidon's help once the entire ocean floor had realised what Perseus meant to do. However, though his father had made it known to the world that he supported the Greeks, he refused to stand in his estranged son's way. He hadn't meddled, and Perseus respected him for that. But he also hadn't done much to stop his wife, who had been spurned into action by her hatred for Perseus and Thetis' manipulative words.

The dark-haired man took a wild guess that Galateia did not like her sisters very much.

However, the Nereid had also informed him that Poseidon had banned his family from touching Perseus in any way, lest they face his wrath. Perseus didn't know how to feel about that. He could fight his own battles without Poseidon. But, it made the immortal hate his father a bit less.

"Perhaps if you're done stewing gloomily, you can calm the hurricane so we can move on with our lessons." Galateia's drawl pulled him out of his river of thoughts. Perseus' eyes peeled open slowly and he blinked, before uncrossing his legs. He tilted his head to the side, watching her and willed the hurricane he had generated to die. The waves and the winds came to a standstill around him, and the son of the sea rose out of the water.

"What was the point of this lesson anyway?" He inquired. "I don't see how being able to cause a hurricane would help me if we're not fighting next to the sea."

"Well, obviously, it won't," the nereid rolled her eyes. "But you're not learning for this war alone. You're immortal. Do the mathematics." She paused. "And that is why you're going to learn how to start a rainstorm and an earthquake. Then we can move on to mist travel."

He nodded at her, mentally preparing and fortifying his mind and body for the exertion he was about to be put through. But he didn't care. He had to grow stronger. For his people. For Hector.

"But," Galateia ambled towards him, kicking up sand as she did so. "I am just a simple Nereid. There is only so much I can teach you."

She motioned towards the sea, and Perseus narrowed his eyes at her. Galateia gave him a smirk. "I think it's time for the real deal." He watched in mild surprise as a figure rose from the depths of the ocean. His carbon copy, except older, harder, and with a tentative look on his face. He wore his usual armour and held the glowing trident. Perseus exchanged a look with his teacher, arching a brow. "Seriously?"

"This is as serious as you'll ever see me, honey," She folded her arms.

Perseus snorted, then turned to face his…father. Poseidon stopped a few feet away. "Your friend Hector was a good man. I am sorry for your loss, Perseus."

His fingers unconsciously moved to the ring the sea god had gifted him before. The coin felt warm to the touch. "Yeah," He murmured, a deep sadness filling him. "You and me both."

Poseidon nodded. "Last time we spoke, you said I could come find you."

"I did," He remembered.

"I'm here now," The sea god stood straighter. "And I want to help you." He nodded at his father. This was a big step. But it was a step he was willing to take. Anything for Hector. Anything for Troy. "When do we start? So I can see how far you've gotten?" The deity asked.

Perseus didn't know when Galateia left. But as he tossed his coin and caught Riptide in his grasp, he laughed darkly. "How about now?" With that, he swung his sword and charged.

BREAK

ANOTHER RAGING BATTLE. Another endless day of fighting. Another day Achilles and the Achaeans threatened their home.

Perseus drove his sword through one of his assailants and pulled the reins on BlackJack quickly, making the horse rear back to avoid an errant spear. The equestrian clopped the attacking Greek in the forehead, before letting loose a couple of colourful slurs. The battleground was a blur of gold and blood. Blood everywhere. His own weapons and body were splattered with it as he continued to cut down and cut through enemy lines.

As he continued to search for the man he'd been hunting since the battle had started at dawn.

Perseus' eyes roved across the battlefield for what seemed like the millionth time. He saw Helenus and Deiphobus, fighting back to back against a sea of Greek kings. He saw Paris, firing arrow after arrow into enemy lines from atop a white steed. He saw Aeneas surrounded by his Dardanian men, cutting down Achaeans artfully like they were sheaves of wheat. Aeneas was trying to make his way to him as they had planned. So they could creep up on Achilles, who had darted away each time they attempted to approach and then gotten lost in the fighting.

He also saw the Amazons, tearing through Greek lines, blurs of gold and hair and weapons, glowing with the blessings of Artemis and Ares, fighting ferociously and killing Greek men with relish. They were truly turning the tide of the battle, and during the first onslaught, it had taken garnering and orders from Menelaus to get their soldiers to stand their ground when the Amazons had appeared. The female warriors were known to have never lost a battle—except against Dionysus and his fanatics.

Penthesileia was the most impressive among them. She had been in a chariot drawn by skeleton horses at the beginning of the battle, probably courtesy of Ares her father. But now she was on the ground, mowing down Greeks with shouts of glee as they ran, swinging a lance expertly in one hand and a knife in the other. None dared to cross her path. She had already taken down several of the Greeks' best men and would continue to do so until nightfall. Save Achilles, Perseus did not know anyone amongst the devils from across the sea who could beat Otrera's daughter.

He kept galloping through the men locked in combat, driving his celestial bronze weapon through breastplates, lopping off heads, and cutting through tendons. The field was littered with blood and bodies—but thankfully no gods—and his ears kept ringing with screaming and wailing. Roars of the men and women around him, shouts of terror, choking—it was maddening. He scanned the terrain again and then bit his lip as he realised what he was unconsciously searching for, his mind temporarily diverting from his Achilles hunt.

Or rather, who.

Hector wasn't here. Hector would never be here again. The sooner he understood that, the better it would be for all of them. His friend might not be around, but he knew who was.

"BlackJack," Perseus shouted over the din of the battle. "I want you to get back to the Palace!"

On it, boss. The horse didn't put up an argument. He started to turn and Perseus raised his sword to slice through a stray arrow, before spinning his wrist and shearing through the neck of an oncoming attacker on horseback. He concentrated, hard, calling to the moisture around and inside him. He ordered his body fluids to bend to his will, to dissolve, to part and carry him deep into the Greek lines.

It only took a few seconds, and that gut-wrenching feeling surfaced; then he had disintegrated, the feeling of floating off BlackJack's back making him feel highly uncomfortable and simultaneously giddy. But then finally he felt himself solidifying, first his feet then his legs then his torso and finally his head. He raised his shield just in time to block a blow from a sword and stabbed downward into the gut of the Greek before him. "Sorcery…" The man moaned before dying. Perseus scoffed, pulling his sword out and bashing the hilt into another's head.

His sudden appearance had startled the Greeks and they scrambled away from him, screaming. The son of Anchises guffawed, and launched himself into their ranks. Fools, all of them. He would kill all hundreds of thousands of these men to get to Achilles, whatever part of the damn battlefield he was hiding on.

As he clashed swords with one of the men, he bared his teeth and snarled, "Where is Achilles?"

"I'll never tell you, I—" His words ended in a gurgle as a lance protruded out of his throat. Perseus reared back as the lance continued to move forward, ducking just in time for it to pierce through the breastplate of a man who had crept up on him.

"I had that," He frowned at Penthesileia.

"Of course you did," She grinned maniacally, spinning on her heel and throwing dirt into the air. She proceeded to skewer three soldiers coming up before them. Perseus dove into the fray, fighting earnestly in a blur of gold, blue and red, the air pierced by the metallic tang of blood and sparks from metal against metal. "However accomplished you may be, part of Lady Selene's request consists of ensuring you stay unharmed during the battle, so a thank you would be great."

"I don't need a babysitter," He rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but smile. Of course, Selene would pull something like this. If she couldn't be there herself, she would find other ways to fulfil her role as his saviour in his times as a warrior-in-distress.

"Sure thing, princess," The Queen barked. She licked a drop of blood from her lips.

"I need to find Achilles," He called as they came back to back, spinning, slashing and hacking simultaneously as wave after wave of men attacked them. "Seen him around?"

"Can't say I have," She managed to shrug as she buried her knife into a man's groin. "Though I reckon he'll be where the Greeks are losing ground most. That's with my warriors on the left wing."

"That's at the other side of the field," He bared his teeth, twisting his sword deeper into another Greek general.

"I heard you're a son of Poseidon," Penthesileia panted.

"Relevance?"

"Achilles is in a chariot. Get his horses to drag him towards you. They could also rampage and destroy a couple Greek lines in the process," She whirled around him, hurling her knife and it sailed through the wind, before burying itself into a man coming behind him.

"You're oddly good at this bodyguard job," He snarked. "And that's…a good idea."

As he blocked a strike on his shield, he exhaled, freeing his mind. He suddenly felt an array of diverse thoughts, curses and screams fill his head. Damn, these equestrians were noisy. Perseus gritted his teeth, pushing back on the enemy soldier and kicking him in the chest then diving forward to smack him across the face with his shield. He proceeded to drive his sword into his gut.

Listen to me, He projected his thoughts across the battlefield, hoping they resonated in the minds of all the horses. All of you, I hope you can hear me.

His mind was suddenly bombarded with yells of adoration and neighs of Yes, Lord.

I want every horse on this battlefield to stop moving. The order was swift, fast.

Perseus knew it was working when he heard shouts of outrage and yells of confusion from the storm of people around. If you're fighting for the Trojans, I want you all to get back to the palace, but before that, kill as many Greeks as you can. There were neighs of response as the horses burst into action around them. If you're on the Greek side bearing a chariot, flip it over, now. Get rid of those reigns and break as many heads with those iron hooves as you can. Then make your way to the Trojan Gates. I'll see to it that you're well received."

There was chaos and carnage on the battlefield. Men were thrown from their chariots. Horses stampeded over their owners. Perseus tuned them out.

He sheathed his sword into another gut, and as he sent the thought out, his lips moved in sync with his mind, "Xanthos and Balios. Bring Achilles to me."

A/N: I'M A BIT RUSTY, SO…THOUGHTS?