ACHILLES barely noticed as he trudged back into the Greek camp. His heart and hands heavy, the warrior Prince barely glanced up as he made his way through the camp and towards his own tent. It was nighttime, ending another day of endless fighting and useless death. Specifically, Penthesileia's. He absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, his mind barely registering the screams and wails of agony which pierced the air as he passed the medic's tent.

So much death, so much carnage.

Had it all been worth it? Had all of this been worth the glory and the fame he had craved for so long? The death of his best friend, the betrayal of his lover, his murder of the Amazon Queen and even his own impending departure from Earth. Ever since his mother's stunt at the Styx—making him invulnerable, thinking she had outsmarted the Fates—it didn't take brains to know his life would not be easy. He had known the cost of this glory he sought and he had come anyway. Maybe he was stupid, and his mother had been right. Perhaps he should have stayed on Phthia. Things would have been different.

Patroclus would still be alive.

But he would not have met Briseis. Even though she had betrayed him, he had loved her. He had fought for her.

He would not have made friends.

He would not have had the opportunity to fight alongside and against the greatest heroes of their age. He would not have crossed swords with a fierce warrior queen who had tempted him with her danger. And the fates were cruel for making it play out like it did, but that was just how it was.

He was here now. He was going to die soon. And then it would all end. All the pain and the loss and suffering.

As he passed a small campfire, he made a turn, shaking his head and mumbling to himself, "Oh, Penthesileia. If only things were different—"

Achilles heard a chorus of laughter. His head moved up slightly, and his feet slowly drew to a stop. There were men—soldiers—seated around the flames, eating from bowls and roasting something on a spit. Fish, probably. That was all they seemed to eat these days.

"The whore queen?" One of the men spoke. He was looking directly at Achilles. "That was one powerful duel, man. That bitch had it coming, I'll say."

"What?" There was whistling in his ears. Achilles frowned at them.

"I mean, really. Bloody brilliant, you are! She's killed a lot of us, see. Everyone who's ever fought her died. But then she couldn't resist. She wanted to have a taste! A whore, even on the battlefield! The stories about all those Amazons are true. We saw her, y'know. Mouthing the Hades right off you. Probably aching for a good poun—" Achilles had had enough. He did not know how or why he reacted the way he did. His blood rushed to his head and the Prince drew his sword rapidly, slashing upwards.

"Penthesileia was a million times the warrior any of you could ever hope to be." He let out a scoff before turning on his heel as the now headless corpse collapsed to the ground. Shouts of outrage erupted behind him. But Achilles did not care. He continued to march angrily towards his tent, heart pounding in anger. How could that nobody disrespect the dead Queen in such a horrid way? He deserved to burn in the darkest parts of Hades.

But, a voice reminded him, he had also dragged Hector's body—a Crown Prince—around Troy and refused to give it back.

Achilles was the worst type of man there was. A hypocrite. There wasn't a big difference between them at all. This war, and everything it had come with…it had tainted him. It had turned him into a monster; and corrupted his soul. There was no salvation for him. It hurt that he had not seen it happening sooner—that he had let it happen. The Prince of Phthia sighed as he finally saw his tent. Phoenix stood guard outside, ever the loyal soldier. The son of Thetis did not miss the way his eyes moved to the bloodied blade, then back to the Prince's face. Achilles smiled slightly at him as he passed, although he was sure it looked more like a grimace. In the past decade, this man had been his father, his advisor and his friend. Phoenix knew him, maybe even more than his actual father did. Achilles paused as he opened the tent flap.

"I'm about to die, dear old Phoenix," He said wistfully. "Any day from now, I'll be no more."

"My Lord," The older man pursed his lips. "Do not speak with such misery. Nothing will happen to you. Not under my watch."

"Oh, Phoenix," He shook his head, then patted him on the shoulder. "It is the will of the fates, and not even you can stand in their way." The man looked troubled, but he did not argue with Achilles. Perhaps he saw the sea of emotions raging through him—the turmoil in his mind. "Get me some parchment and ink, would you? I need to write a few letters home. And two to Skyros. And have one of the men fetch Calchas. I fear I may have killed one of ours and am in dire need of ritual purification before the gods smite me."

Phoenix's brow wrinkled. He placed a hand to his chest and bowed to Achilles, before departing.

As the golden-haired lion of Greece stepped into his tent, he smiled wryly. He could not help but feel that the next time he saw this place, he would be on another plane of reality.

BREAK

PERSEUS's eyelids fluttered in the darkness as he let out a small exhale. Selene brushed a few strands of hair from his face and planted a kiss on his forehead. He let out another content sigh and Selene smiled, drawing back. "Are you sure about this? I know how much killing Achilles means to you."

He was silent for a few heartbeats before he nodded—well, as much as he could with his head in his lover's lap. They were in his chambers in the palace, just a few hallways away from Aeneas and Creusa. "Yes, I am. Aeneas is smart and I trust him. You know between you and my brother, you both do 90 per cent of my thinking for me." He laughed. "And as much as I might not like it, he's right. Killing Achilles in close combat is going to be impossible. He knows that we're aware now, thanks to Briseis."

"How do you think she is? Briseis, I mean. If she truly loved Achilles, I find it hard to believe she would sell him out like that." Admittedly, it was something which had not escaped them. But with Aeneas' growing powers, he trusted that the information was accurate. He told Selene as much.

"Briseis…well, she's a complex case, if I'm being honest," He spoke. "For the longest time, I felt terrible about leaving her behind—" He glanced up and saw the immortal's raised eyebrow, which made him chuckle under his breath. "We were intimate for a night, Sel. It was a very long time ago; it meant nothing. And you know that was when you and I were both still denying whatever feelings we had for each other."

"That's true," She smirked. "But for her sake, let's hope she's over it."

"Even if she does," He said, matter-of-factly. "No one under Apollo's sun compares to you."

"Oh Mother Rhea, who knew under all that 'warrior', there's a lovesick starfish?" She teased.

"And it's all yours," He whispered. Selene stroked his cheek.

"Briseis was safe under Achilles' care," He ploughed on, with an exhale, eyelids fluttering at the motions of her fingers. "I think she might have developed some sort of syndrome or something, where she thought she was in love with him. But he was her captor. He destroyed her home. No matter how much she cared for him, I do not think it was easy for her to forget that. Maybe she was just faking it, for her survival. It did not take much cajoling to get her to tell us what she knew. Aeneas' charmspeak helped too."

"Right," She nodded, leaning back on his pillows. "Do you think this—Achilles' death—will finally bring you peace?" Her voice was quiet now, and barely pierced the evening stillness.

Perseus shut his eyes. He had been thinking about it, he would not lie. But he didn't much like the answer he'd arrived at. "Hector, maybe. It'll bring his spirit peace. Andromache too. And his parents."

"But not you," Selene murmured. She was glowing slightly, and Perseus smiled to himself despite the morbid conversation, snuggling deeper into his little glow-in-the-dark lady love.

"Not me," He agreed. "I don't think I'll ever find peace until the Greeks are gone and everyone I love is safe."

"Mhmm," Her fingers traced his jawline. "You think killing Achilles would ensure that?"

"It certainly takes us closer to the goal, if that's what you mean," He replied lowly, voice raspy. "Achilles is a beacon of hope for the Greeks. If he's off the board, we might just win this thing."

"Your powers and Aeneas' seem to be tipping the playing field in your favour," The Titaness agreed. "You might just win this thing."

The son of Anchises felt hope bloom in his chest. It was an odd and foreign feeling. He had not had hope in him since he had watched his best friend cut down in front of his very eyes. But they really could do this. They could rout the Greeks, he was sure of it.

Ten years.

For ten years, they had been fighting this never-ending war, and he for one, was sick of watching his friends die around him every day. He was sick of worrying if his brother and his city were going to see another sunrise. He was sick of the endless pattern of grief, torment and loss.

"But after that," Selene's brows drew together. "What next?"

"All I want to do—" He reached up, gently cupping Selene's face in his free hand and drawing her lips to meet his. As they broke away, he continued, "—Is kiss you like this, and stay in this room for a full week—" He kissed her chin. "And let you ravish me until neither of us can walk." Her lips brushed his, but then she pulled away, eyes alight with mirth. Perseus sank back into her lap, grumbling. She was such a tease.

She laughed at him. "Is that a promise?"

"Oh, yes, definitely on my to-do list," He answered, smirking up at her.

The dark-haired woman smiled at him. "Good thing we have an eternity, then." Her hands went back to roving his hair, and Perseus smiled into her belly. They lay there for a while in a comfortable silence, just listening to the sounds of their breathing. It soothed him, feeling her torso rise and fall. That was what he loved about her. With Selene, there were no pretences. He was not the General of the Trojan army. He was not an immortal demigod and she was not a Titaness. They didn't need to talk, even. They just were.

His eyelids fluttered once more as Hypnos slowly drew him into his embrace.

"How do you think Andromache and Astyanax are faring?" Selene mumbled quietly into the night air, drawing him from sleep's bosom.

"Andromache is…wrecked," He whispered back. "And as for Astyanax, I think he's far too young to understand what's going on." It did all sorts of things to him when he went to see the bereaved family and Hector's son was always crying for his dad. "But Creusa and Hecuba spend all their time with them. I think Achilles' death will clear things up for Andromache the most."

"I imagine the pain they are going through will not be easily forgotten though," Selene said. "A mother should never have to bury her child. Or a wife her husband."

"Yeah," He agreed. Then a frown settled on his face as he remembered something. "What about you? Your…children," He paused. "Do they know..about us?"

Selene's lips pulled up in a slight smile. "Some. I have not seen all fifty of them together in a long time. The ones that do know cannot wait to meet you."

Oh. He had forgotten that tiny detail. Fifty. Damn. "You should have mentioned. I'm open to meeting them anytime." She laughed, and the sound washed over him. He always loved it when Selene laughed. "Anyway, fifty is a huge number." He looked up, meeting her eyes—still the same, after all this time. "Open to having more?"

The Titaness seemed to consider the question. Perseus' heart thundered in his chest. "I wouldn't mind. Not if it's you." She leaned down and kissed him. "You'll be a great father."

"Let's hope so," He exhaled, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. Watching Astyanax and Aeneas' son grow up had been…something. He loved them both. He was the favourite uncle, of course, and he himself wanted to be a dad for the longest time. But not with this war looming over their heads. He could not damn a child by bringing them into this painful existence. Not now, at least. But maybe later, with Selene… just maybe. "Once this whole thing blows over."

"It will." The lightness in the room was replaced by a stifling seriousness. "It has to let up someday, doesn't it?" He nodded his assent numbly. Oh, how he hoped she was right. He was bloody tired.

"This war…" He looked up at the ceiling. His thoughts and feelings crowded him, emotions whirling in him until he felt like he was flooding. "This war has taken…everything from us. All of us. I don't think I even remember who I was before it all started."

Selene smiled in the dark. "I do. You are still the same headstrong, loyal, reckless hero you always were, and always will be. The only difference is you grew up." Something bloomed in his chest. A warmth spread through him.

"A bit too quickly," He murmured. "But yeah." Perseus took her hand and intertwined their fingers. "Thanks, I needed that."

"I know," The other immortal squeezed his hand. "My children would be pleased to meet you once this war is over. But—"

"I'll be on my best behaviour," He held up his free hand. "Promise."

"Not that," She shook her head. "My sister Eos, I asked for her help."

"And?"

"Her son should arrive with the dawn, with an army. He's a demigod, like you. He's one of Ethiopia's Generals, over in Africa." Perseus sat up in the bed. "His name is Memnon, and I believe with his aid, along with the Amazon's continued support, the Trojan army should have enough manpower to overcome the Greeks. I give it a week, tops."

"That's amazing, Selene," He pulled her into a bone-crushing hug. She hugged him back, patting his back at the enthusiasm. "You've done a lot for Troy. For me." He pulled back and slammed his lips on hers in a searing kiss. When they broke apart, he laughed. "I love you."

She chuckled, pulling away. "I love you too, but don't be too happy yet. Another thing I almost forgot; My brother comes from Sicily in a few days." Perseus blanched. "Helios wants to meet you."

BREAK

THE DAY'S FIGHTING had been even more brutal than usual. For the first time since Hector's death, Perseus was focused on pushing towards the Greek camp on the beach and not hunting down Achilles on the battlefield. He fought back to back with his brother, dodging slashes, cutting down men and running his sword through their enemies. Alongside them rode the Amazons, under the banner of their new queen, who fought with as much ferociousness as her predecessor. Penthesileia's death had awoken a beast within the female warriors, and they would not be sated until the plain flooded with the blood of the Achaeans.

Their plan was a simple one. Sooner or later, they would stumble upon Achilles. Everything had to seem natural, or else he would bolt once more. And they could not allow that.

There were screams of terror coming from the left flank of the Achaeans, and Perseus grinned maniacally to himself as a chariot thundered down the plain, pulled by four fire-breathing horses, quite similar to Apollo's. Memnon, the leader of the Ethiopian contingent, carried one of the Greek princes aloft with his spear—Antilochus, Nestor's son, it seemed. The man was dead, and the General let loose another roar as he hurled him off his golden spear. The outcry was carried up by the thousands of men who had joined the fight from Africa.

The reinforcements were well-needed. The Greek forces were thinning, he could see. A few more days of pushing, and they would have the entire plain. The Achaeans would be forced back to their camp and Perseus would summon an earthquake—even larger than the one he had used to destroy their gates—to bury them underground. Then he would summon another wave of the sea to drown whatever survivors were left behind. He would rid Troy of this problem, once and for all.

But before that, Achilles had to go.

Perseus barely reacted as blood sprayed on him. He tore his sword out of the throat of his assailant and raised his shield just in time to catch an axe. With an expert manoeuvre, he twisted his arm and drove his sword through the attacker's midgut. Aeneas was at his side in an instant, swords swinging, and he fluidly chopped the man's head off. They wove around each other like a well-oiled machine, watching each other's backs, tearing through the Greek lines with little effort.

After ten years of fighting beside one another, it felt natural, as he blocked a sword headed for Aeneas' head. His brother spun low and came up behind him, crossing his swords in an x to intercept a stray arrow. They were monstrous, unforgiving and beastly, slicing off arms, and dodging lances and arrows amidst the screams and the blood. The horses rammed into Greek soldiers, sending them flying.

The Greeks had gotten smart—in the days since his first stint with the equestrians, they had long since begun to forgo the convenience of riding into battle. Now, the Trojans controlled almost all the horses on the plain. If they kept this up, in a few days the Greeks would be decimated. Achilles' absence from the fighting had brought them to their knees all those weeks ago. His death would send them reeling—leaving them open and confused enough for Troy to land the killing blow on their forces.

A group of Greeks had surrounded them. Corpses littered the ground around the two brothers. Perseus exchanged a glance with Aeneas. His ichor thrummed in his veins. The thrill of battle sent adrenaline sparking through him. He pursed his lips. When this war was over, he did not know how what he would do with himself. He would have to rediscover who he was without the threat of daily battles hanging over his head each morning. But Selene would be there to guide him. He had hope that he would be okay.

Aeneas' forehead wrinkled. The Greeks inched closer. Perseus shifted his foot and stepped into a puddle of blood. His brother's voice rose over the din of the battle, and Aeneas cried out, "Run each other through with those weapons!" He felt his heart stop as his brother bent the will of the dozen Achaeans around him. Perseus himself felt the urge, to drive his sword into Aeneas…no, that was his brother speaking. Aphrodite's son did not know the extent of the power he wielded. Perseus fought off the nagging in his mind to obey his will. Aeneas' power rolled off him in waves and the son of Anchises felt his lips pull up in a proud smile as the men, weak-willed as they were, offered no resistance. They spun on each other and stabbed with gusto and glazed expressions.

It was not a pretty sight.

Aeneas was panting as the soldiers around them collapsed. Perseus reached out and gripped him by the elbow. It was certainly not the first time he had seen the King of Dardania use his godly gifts, but that did not mean it got any less eerie. "You're amazing," He shouted.

"Thanks, I try," Aeneas grinned wryly. His hands shot out from his side and a knife sailed out of his grip and into the chest of an oncoming Greek king. The man collapsed a few feet away.

Another platoon of Greeks was closing in on them. Trojans, Amazons and Achaeans alike were locked in combat all over the battlefield. The sun burnt high and bright, as though every eye on Olympus was focused on them, which was probably the case. The soldiers charged.

Perseus felt an idea come to his mind and instinctively waved his sword arm, imagining what he wanted to happen and bending the moisture around him to his will. He felt the water in the pools of blood respond to his command and with another wave of his hand, the blood rose, then separated, then crystallised until there were a dozen spears of blood surrounding them. Sweat ran down his back.

"Seems like you've got your own tricks up your sleeve," Aeneas noted, sliding into a defensive stance. He blocked the first blow and with his other sword's pommel, made a man's helmet sink in.

"Yeah, you could say that," Perseus conceded. He ducked underneath another swing and flicked his wrist. The spears sailed through the air and Perseus guided them towards their targets effortlessly. He grinned as they tore through the shields and breastplates of their assailants. Several Greeks lay impaled and very much dead around them.

"Great work," Aeneas huffed, hurling another throwing knife into a man pressing an Amazon back. "We need to—"

There was a roar from a few feet away. Heads snapped up. Aeneas and Perseus exchanged a glance. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the overturned chariot and the skittering flaming horses. Memnon, Eos' son, was locked in combat with another warrior. Achilles.

He looked older than the last time they had seen him. Haggard, and worn. But his golden armour still shone through the blood and gore. His eyes were sunken and his face gaunt, but still every bit as regal as it had been, even beneath that disguise on Skyros. His golden hair billowed in the wind as he spun and delivered two quick slashes into Memnon's breastplate. The man barely had any time to defend himself, before Achilles was driving a sword through his heart. Aeneas' eyes widened. Perseus swore. In a heartbeat, they were dashing towards the General and the Prince.

Thunder rumbled overhead, although the sky was clear. The sun flared in anger. The fiery horses neighed and bolted off into the throng of fighting men. Perseus sliced the arm of a man who was approaching them. Aeneas delivered a killing blow to another who came in their path. They continued making their way towards the fallen man and the lion of Phthia, slicing through Achaeans, wading through blood and jumping over bodies.

Perseus felt his ichor boil. What was it with this bastard and killing all their leaders and allies?

Achilles spun and shoved his weapon through one of the Ethiopians who had charged him. He ducked under a swing from an Amazon and raised his weapon to lop off her arm. His other hand held a small knife which he drew across the woman's throat. Perseus grimaced as a memory assaulted his mind. He remembered the same motion, the same Achaean, but a different curly-haired enemy. Aeneas yelled and charged Achilles.

Perseus skidded to a stop next to Memnon, checking. The man was dead. He had not known the other demigod that well—they had only met once when the battle had brought them back to back after the Ethiopian army had charged into the fray. But Memnon was Selene's nephew. He had been a glorious fighter. He had gone down with honour. Perseus' head pounded and with a yell, he launched himself at the golden-haired Achaean.

Achilles pivoted, meeting Aeneas' first strike with his sword. The impact sent a wave of dust rolling off the ground, but Aeneas held his ground, teeth gritted with effort. "You're going to pay for what you did," The King promised.

"Are you going to talk me to death, then?" The man snarked.

They bounced away from each other, but then Perseus was there, two hands gripped on Riptide, his shield forgotten on the ground. He clashed with Achilles, a yell escaping his lips. His head and heart thrummed with anger at this man. This man, who had striven for ten years to take everything away from him. No more. No bloody more. Achilles died today. Perseus leaned back as the man brought his knife arching through the sky. He spun on his heel, dodging low and slashing at the other man's gut.

But Achilles was fast. He doubled back just as quickly, bringing his sword down in an overhead strike. Perseus leapt aside, his mind playing back to their first fight, all those years back in Skyros. Aeneas launched himself over his bent form, twin swords flashing in the sunlight. He and Achilles collided, and the force of Aeneas' strike sent the man backtracking. The lion of Greece and the king of Dardania met in a flurry of metal, celestial bronze and sparks. Aeneas dodged a wide strike from Achilles' sword and sidestepped a blow from the knife. His arm shot up to slam the hilt of his blade into Achilles' jaw but the Phthian leaned back, right as Perseus joined the fray.

The son of Poseidon slashed at Achilles' arm but his blade bounced off, the momentum of his blow making Achilles grunt. Fury clouded his vision as he jabbed low. But Achilles leaped up and the sword cut through the air where the heel was before. Aeneas' sword blocked a strike which would have slammed into Perseus' head and with a burst of strength, his brother sent Achilles flying.

Aeneas was at his side in that instant, his face hard and angry, "Get a grip, Perseus. Don't let your anger get in the way. You're getting sloppy!" He bared his teeth but nodded. Aeneas was right. For this to work, he needed to be levelheaded. This was far too important to screw up.

They glanced up just in time to see Achilles charging them again and bounced to meet him head-on.

It was a collision which would never be forgotten by the history books.

Around them, the entire world faded until it was only Perseus, Achilles and Aeneas. They danced around each other like wraiths, weaving a tapestry of anger, grief and death. They exchanged powerful blows which would have signalled the end for lesser men, sparks and flames flying when metal met metal. Blood and ichor roared through Perseus' ears. Achilles, as weak as he looked, was holding his own. But he could not fight them together and hope to win.

Achilles swung low with a powerful arc aimed at Perseus' legs, but the son of Poseidon executed a quick sidestep, the blade narrowly missing him. He countered with a thrust of his own, aiming for Achilles' arm which held the knife. The blade slammed into impenetrable skin, and Achilles yelled in pain, releasing his blade. Quick as lightning, Aeneas was there, grabbing the knife midair and slamming it into Achilles' side. The metal blade bent on impact, but the damage had been done. With equally fast reflexes, Perseus brought his knee up and slammed it into Achilles' face, sending him reeling backwards with a grunt. Aeneas jumped up and delivered a quick roundhouse which sent Achilles tumbling to the ground.

As one, they leapt at him once more. Achilles snarled and spat out blood from his mouth, rolling to his feet. He rotated his body and brought his sword up to block their blows and three swords collided with his, the force sending a shockwave rippling through Perseus' arm. He danced back and Aeneas pushed forward, swinging his swords in a high arc. The legendary warrior whirled, deflecting the blow with a swift horizontal motion of his sword.

"Aeneas, get down!" With a similar trick as the one he'd done with the blood, Perseus summoned the perspiration off their respective bodies and formed several tiny blades of moisture. He felt that familiar tug in his gut; it was lighter now, though. His powers barely required any effort anymore. He was immortal, and there was no burnout for him. As his brother dropped to the ground he released the projectiles towards Achilles. The man's eyes widened as the spears sailed towards him. The blue-eyed warrior expertly danced out of the way, sword flashing in the sunlight as he cut down several of the weapons and manoeuvred his way through the onslaught, hair whipping in the wind. Above them, thunder rumbled.

Zeus was watching.

Perseus barely noticed the sky darkening.

Aeneas attacked again and lunged at Achilles with a rapid thrust aimed at his side. Achilles reacted with remarkable reflexes, stepping back and redirecting Aeneas' strike away with a calculated flick of his wrist. As thunder boomed once more around them, Achilles spun and sliced at Aeneas. Perseus felt his heart stop when he saw it. His brother's left hand—still clutching the sword—from his wrist to his fingers, separated from the rest of his arm. Aeneas cried out and stumbled back, narrowly dodging a killing blow from Achilles' weapon.

Enraged, Perseus dove forward, intercepting another strike. He snarled at Achilles, pushing him back. Perseus turned back to his brother, worry etched on his face. "You alright?"

Aeneas gritted his teeth. His blood was leaking rapidly out of the stub where his wrist used to be. The raven-haired man felt his heart stutter. He hated seeing his brother in pain. But Aeneas gripped his arm and said, "I'll be fine. Let's go."

Achilles laughed from a few feet away. "You'll bleed out before you manage to kill me. Why not make this quick?"

"You're going to regret this," Perseus snarled. "All of it."

"Oh, yeah?" Golden boy's eyes glinted. "Make me."

Achilles darted forward, moving in and out of range. With his one working hand, Aeneas moved to meet him. Perseus dove into the fray a split second later, and the three warriors collided once more. Achilles feinted an attack towards Aeneas, drawing him into a defensive posture before swiftly redirecting his weapon towards Perseus. The move caught him off guard, forcing him to raise his sword just in time to block the incoming strike. Before he could react Achilles had drawn another small blade and jabbed it into his side. Perseus let out a gasp of pain and stumbled back, just as Aeneas drew a fatal line with his sword, across Achilles' neck. But of course, it was useless. The Achaean scowled and twisted away, hand moving towards his throat to rub the forming bruise.

Perseus growled and pulled out the offending weapon. Bitch. With precision, he hurled it at Achilles, just as Aeneas pivoted to deliver a sharp upward strike towards Achilles' chin. The prince barely ducked in time, and Perseus watched as the knife bounced off one of Achilles' heels. He spun, rage filling his eyes, and then scoffed. "Good try."

The sons of Anchises attacked once more and Perseus swiped at Achilles' head as Aeneas slashed at his arm. A rush of air sailed over him where the blades passed, as the expert warrior slid underneath Perseus' blow and spun in the sand to avoid Aeneas'. Without warning, Lightning arched through the sky and slammed into a fallen body on the ground a distance away. Dust and debris clouded the air as they clashed again. Perseus darted around Achilles, seeing an opportunity to flank him. He feinted to the left, drawing the blond man's attention, then quickly moved right, thrusting his blade into Achilles' exposed side. The warrior, ever aware, caught his blow with his gauntlet and pushed Perseus back with otherwordly strength.

Aeneas attacked again, swinging low, aiming to unbalance Achilles. The Achaean, anticipating the move, jumped to avoid the strike but was caught off guard when Aeneas immediately followed with an upward arc. The sword connected with Achilles' knee, sending him off balance, but he quickly regained his footing and retaliated with a spinning attack, sword arcing through the air to lop off Aeneas' head. His brother would not be able to react in time. Perseus dove forward and raised his arm to block the blade, which bounced off his own gauntlet. He was littered with cuts and bruises. Ichor slowly inched down his armour. Aeneas didn't look much better. His injury was still bleeding.

"You have to cauterize that," Perseus barked at his brother, bringing his sword up to stab Achilles' torso. The man jumped away. "Get back to the medic tent!'

"Later," Aeneas panted. His face was screwed up in pain. "We stick to the plan."

"Aeneas—"

He was cut off by a familiar shout from a few feet away. Another arc of lightning slammed into the ground. The prone body…Memnon. The General of the Ethiopian army suddenly sat up with a scream as lightning seared his body. He shook as the force of Jove's power burned through him, his voice resonating across the battlefield. Perseus saw blue and Aeneas swore, shielding his eyes.

"What—" His brother was cut off by a yell from Achilles.

"Never mind that," Perseus adjusted his stance. From the corner of his eye, he saw Memnon's eyelids flutter open. His eyes were glowing. And he was very much alive. "Impossible," Aeneas muttered. But it wasn't. Whatever was happening with Memnon, now was not the time to think about it.

Achilles raced for them.

He was fueled by his rage, and his rage made him aggressive. As he closed the distance, Perseus met him with a series of rapid strikes. Achilles' body absorbed most of the blows, and the immortal demigod himself dodged a few hits. He countered with a series of quick thrusts, forcing Achilles to retreat momentarily. Aeneas capitalized on this, rushing in with a powerful downward strike.

Anticipating the move, Achilles sidestepped and spun to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade as it struck the ground. He whirled around and delivered a solid right hook into Aeneas' jaw sending him stumbling. Perseus slammed the hilt of his sword into Achilles' head at the same time the warrior drove his fist into Perseus' gut. The three men reared away from one another, grunting in pain, but each quickly regained his composure. Achilles' eyes narrowed with determination.

Perseus had known it would not be easy. But they needed to get going. He exchanged a glance with Aeneas and together they charged, Perseus leading the assault while Aeneas flanked Achilles. Aeneas struck high, aiming for his head, while Perseus aimed low, targeting his legs. The dual attack forced Achilles to split his defences once more and in that split second, Aeneas' sword connected with his shoulder while Perseus' blade swept under, knocking him off balance.

Before he could fall, Perseus grabbed Achilles by his golden locks and slammed his head into his. Achilles swore as Perseus let go, but Aeneas was there, grabbing his head and forcing him to look into his eyes. "You're going to pursue us to the Scaean Gates. Chase us like your life depends on it because it does. Chase, Achilles."

Perseus could see the way his brother was exerting himself, forcing every bit of power and energy he had into that command. Achilles was disoriented, but the Polemarchos had no doubt that should he try to get to Achilles' heel, the Graecean would react quickly and defend himself. The dance of death would go on forever.

Aeneas let go of Achilles and turned back to his brother, nodding. Perseus grabbed him by the elbow, and together, they took off running.

Towards the Scaean gates.

BREAK

ACHILLES grunted as he ran, past the thousands of soldiers screaming for his head. Past the Amazons who wanted to see him dead. Past the Ethiopians whose leader he had struck down what seemed like hours ago. He dodged horses and spears. He spun away from swords and lances. He needed to get to them. Perseus and Aeneas. Cowards. Bastards, taking off mid-fight.

Wherever they went he would follow, until he sent one or both of them to join their friend Hector.

His heart pounded in his chest. Blood rushed to his head and adrenaline pounded through his veins. He tore across the plain like he was weightless, his sword arm moving of its own free will and protecting him from any assailant which came his way. In the back of his mind, something nagged. Trap…it might be a trap. Perseus and Aeneas, however stupid they were, were not known to run from any battle.

But then an overwhelming feeling washed over him and he shook the thought away. No, he had to keep chasing them. He had to pursue them until they were dead.

He was bruised all over. His armour was shredded, and his head was pounding. His hair stuck to his head, matted with sweat and blood. But still, Achilles kept running. He could see them—Perseus, with his dark hair, bolting towards the city, and Aeneas, minus one hand, shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Achilles felt a brief bolt of satisfaction hit him. He had done that. Aeneas would always look at his stump, and remember that it was Achilles who had taken his hand away. He felt some sort of sick joy at that. Aeneas would never forget.

Even if he died today.

And deep inside him, he realised what was happening. He was running towards his death.

But would he stop?

No. Achilles shut his eyes and exhaled. Whatever was coming, whatever they had planned, he was done. He was done with this war. He was done with the lies, the backstabbing, the endless cycle of pain and death and fighting. He would meet Patroclus again, and that was enough for him. It had to be. He would embrace death, because all his life, death had followed him, loyally, at his side every step of the way. He had been marked from the moment his mother had tried to cheat Fate. Death was not something he feared, no. In some ways, Thanatos was one of the only friends he had left.

Achilles continued to run, eyelids fluttering open. He would go down swinging. They would kill him today, but he would not make it easy for them. "Goodbye, Mother," He murmured. A tear leaked from his eyes, and he prayed the message would get to her. "I love you."

It would be an honour to die at Perseus' and Aeneas' hands. And he would not have it any other way. No one else was worthy.

He was the Prince of Pthia.

The son of Peleus the Argonaut, and Thetis of the sea.

He was the lion of Greece.

He was the bane of the Trojans.

He was the anointed of the gods of Olympus.

Above all, he was the greatest hero of their age.

Above all, he was Achilles.

And he would never be forgotten.

BREAK

AENEAS watched as his brother whirled, sword raised, just in time to catch a blow from Achilles. They were at the gates, and although the son of Aphrodite had not expected the golden-haired prince to catch up to them that quickly, he was more than ready to end it there and then. Around them, the battle raged. Men and women alike fell, heads rolled and the earth soaked up more blood than it had seen in weeks. There was a shrill ringing in Aeneas' ears and his arm was on fire.

He was a hand short, and he was in excruciating pain. But that did not matter. He would fight through this, with his brother, like they had fought through everything life had thrown at them.

Perseus hurled Achilles back and the warrior landed on his feet a few steps away. He seemed to have overcome his earlier disarray, the exertion of the race barely evident on his perfect face. Oh, how Aeneas would relish watching the light drain out of his eyes, once and for all. He wanted to hold Achilles' head beneath the sea and choke him to death. He wanted to see him suffer.

It was something they had considered, but then getting him close enough to the ocean with Perseus around would have been a major problem. Achilles was daft, but not stupid, and it was a risk Aeneas and their small task force were not willing to take. He bared his teeth to stifle a groan as another wave of pain arched from the stump which used to be his wrist. His blood was leaking out rapidly and making him feel woozy; it was a wonder he had not passed out yet. As the Prince dove for them again, Aeneas shot into action, his one useful hand acting as though it had a mind of its own.

He parried the blow meant for Perseus' head, and twisted his blade to the left, giving his brother the clear opportunity to launch a punch at Achilles' nose. A crack resounded across the battlefield and their enemy stumbled back. But Aeneas was sharp, and he quickly struck again, smacking the flat of his blade on Achilles' wrist. He'd expected the man to let go, but no, Achilles was much too smart to release his weapon. He regained his footing and slashed at Aeneas' sword arm. The blade narrowly missed him.

They were all exhausted. Weariness hung over the three like a heavy wet blanket, stifling them and squeezing every bone in their bodies.

"This is it, Achilles," Perseus called. "You've lived far too long for my liking. You've had a good run." They clashed once more, blades screeching against each other, and then bounded apart.

"So I have," Achilles nodded, chest heaving. A strange emotion flickered in his eyes.

"You'll die today," Aeneas told him as they met in battle. They danced around one another, the three of them exchanging blows, trading slashes, parrying and dodging until they were a whirlwind of blood, ichor and celestial bronze.

"I know," Achilles shrugged, backtracking. "My mother predicted my death before I came to Troy."

"Yet here you are," Perseus bit.

"Here I am," Achilles agreed. "I'm going to die by your hand, both of you. I think we've all known for a while, haven't we?"

"Let's not make this any harder than it is, then."

"What, you want me to go out begging for mercy?" He laughed, but it was not humorous. "You're going to have to earn my death, idiots." Aeneas exchanged a glance with Perseus. The sun burned hot above them. Blazing, and almost making the perspiration on his brow evaporate. From the corner of his eye, he spotted two figures, barely noticeable, on the ramparts of the city wall beside the gates. Achilles drew what seemed like the millionth small knife, this time from behind his calf. He slipped into a stance. "Perhaps in another life, we four would have been great friends."

"Perhaps," Perseus conceded.

"Or maybe you would just be your usual self and still kill our best friend," Aeneas barked.

"Like he killed mine?"

Aeneas scowled. Achilles gave them a sad smile. Behind that smile, Aeneas saw several things. Determination. Resignation. Satisfaction. But not defeat. Never defeat. There was still a fire burning in Achilles. A fire they were about to douse. A light they were about to shut down.

"Don't worry," He said. "I understand, for all is fair in love and war. I'll send your regards to Hector once we meet."

As though on cue, the three of them leapt for one another.

Aeneas darted forward and feinted to the left, making the son of Peleus follow instinctively, but at the last second pivoted on his heel and slashed at Achilles' neck. Right behind him was Perseus, aiming a jab at Achilles' ribs. The prince ducked low behind Aeneas' strike and expertly sidestepped Perseus' in a single fluid motion, quickly rising. With his momentum he delivered a sharp kick to Perseus' chest, sending him flying, and his knife tore through the air towards the king of Dardania. Aeneas barely had time to dodge the strike, before Achilles followed with two more. Twin slashes drew themselves across his bicep, cutting through skin. Aeneas hissed and backhanded the Achaean, the force of his blow making him fall on his arse.

Then his brother was there, sword tearing through the air and slamming into Achilles' throat. The Greek choked, but the blade bounced off harmlessly, not shattering, but also not doing any damage. Achilles raised his feet and slammed them into Perseus' chest, sending him flying. Aeneas made to stomp on Achilles' sword arm but the demigod had already rolled aside, and his hand swung out, flinging sand into the son of Aphrodite's eyes. Swearing, Aeneas backtracked quickly. His brother was at his side in an instant, the sand barely bothering him, and Aeneas heard the telltale signs of battle as Perseus engaged Achilles, their blades clashing. He blinked furiously, and finally, the dust cleared, just in time for him to spot Achilles being pushed back, pressed by Perseus' expertly calculated slashes, hacks and jabs. Perseus was livid, but—Aeneas, recognised proudly—he was channelling his anger into his fighting, blocking all the man's attacks, parrying strikes and holding off slashes. He was retaliating against the Achaean's strikes with precise movements of his own, whacking Achilles back like he was a straw dummy, and pressing hard on him until he was stumbling on his own feet.

And then Achilles got a lucky jab in, tearing through Perseus' breastplate and tracing ichor down his chest.

It irked Aeneas how unhurt Achilles looked, apart from the purpling bruises he was sporting.

He quickly moved to help, taking Perseus' place and attacking Achilles tirelessly. Ignoring their respective pain, the two brothers fought side by side, flanking Achilles and pushing him towards the wall. He was cornered, forced to dodge from every side, parry from every angle. They were still too far away. Too far out of range.

Gritting his teeth, Aeneas slashed at Achilles' abdomen as Perseus thrust his sword into the warrior's right flank. Achilles snarled and leaned back to avoid Aeneas' blow, and his sword arm shot upwards to block Perseus'. As quick as one of the bolts Zeus had thrown onto the battlefield, his knife arm was airborne and with a roar Achilles spun, bronze blade slashing Perseus in the face. The son of Poseidon cried out and fell back, free hand moving to cup his left eye. Aeneas swore and knocked the knife out of Achilles' hand. He slammed his foot into the man's chest, pushing him back.

There. Right there.

Aeneas risked a glance at Perseus and winced. Ichor was flowing through Perseus' hand, which still lay on his eye. Whatever the bastard had done, it wasn't good.

With a growl, he pounced on Achilles, but the man was ready for him. As Aeneas slammed his full weight onto the Achaean, Achilles drove his sword into his gut.

Aeneas gasped. He heard Perseus scream in pain. Or anger. He could not tell.

His blood roared in his head.

Aeneas barely felt it as Achilles turned them so he was straddling him. The man above him looked broken. Exhausted. But his eyes shone with victory.

The son of Aphrodite winced as his vision swam. Pain—unbearable, searing pain—arched through his torso. His eyelids flickered towards the ramparts, which Achilles' back was facing. Everything happened in a split second. The whole world halted around him.

He saw the arrow released from the top of the city walls.

He gasped in pain, back arching as Achilles twisted the sword in deeper.

He saw the glowing golden apparition beside the shooter as the sun crested in the sky and burnt brighter than ever before.

He saw the projectile soar through the sky, piercing the air with little resistance, whirling on its axis as it darted for its sole target.

Aeneas watched as the arrow tore through Achilles' heel. He watched the Lion of Greece arc above him, a small gasp leaving his bloodied lips. He watched as his body jerked and the man threw his head back.

Whistling filled his ears.

He saw the acceptance filter into Achilles' eyes. He saw Death swoop down for them both, wings blowing dust around them.

"You…fought…well…" He watched as the hero released a last stuttered breath, his chest sinking.

Aeneas watched, stricken, and darkness crept into his vision. Above him, Achilles' eyes rolled back in his head. There was peace on his face. He was going to see Patroclus again.

The body slumped on him and the whole world rushed back in.

Aeneas collapsed back into the sand, pain tearing through his innards. He saw Paris at the ramparts, a grim expression on his face, his left fist raised in victory; a tribute to his fallen brother the Crown Prince. He saw Perseus race towards him, one side of his face a golden bloodied mess, his hands shaking. He sank onto the ground beside them, and barked, in a panic, "Aeneas! Aeneas, don't you dare shut your eyes!"

"We killed him," He croaked. "Achilles is dead." Perseus' gaze moved to the sprawled body lying on top of his brother. He raised his arm, and Aeneas noticed that in his grip was the same knife which had injured him, stained with the ichor of his immortal demigod brother. His knife sailed down and tore through flesh, joining the arrow and sinking until the hilt slammed into flesh. The body remained motionless. Perseus did not waste time. He rolled Achilles' body off his brother. "Just making sure."

Aeneas managed a weak grin. "We did it," He said. His head swam. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

"Yes," Perseus agreed, hands moving to grip Aeneas'. "It's going to be alright, brother. I'm here. You're fine. We're both fine."

The last thing the son of love saw was the god Apollo descending from the ramparts towards them.

And then the blackness swallowed him whole.