ACT I, CHAPTER V
Hope was for fools.
Zoe's abrupt departure had left him to his own thoughts once more, as if he had never met her to begin with.
Now, he felt more alone than ever.
It hurt - to tear his eyes away from what was left of his former life. It was a familiar bone-crushing sensation he was no stranger to. The emotionally draining effects of his situation did nothing to dampen the effects of distraught, death, and the loss of his loved ones.
Now that Zoe was gone, an undying sensation of anger had coursed through him. He clutched at the hairpin - cold and smooth against his palm. It pressed white-hot against his skin.
He wouldn't be seeing her.
Didn't have the courage to firmly say goodbye.
His own fatal flaw, loyalty, had become his own undoing. He had seen two heroes, walking side by side, together -
The girl, reticent yet motivated.
The boy, lost but with something to prove.
- but for how long?
And the source of the problem? Aeneas. With him alive, and as Aphrodite's pawn, he would never be truly free. Perhaps Priam was correct.
'You'll always be a child. Lost. Forgotten. Powerless. Unloved.'
His past, forever a burden. He was defenceless, powerless against the oppressors. Yet the desire to tear their limbs apart, to make them feel every bit of heartbreaking commiseration he had felt himself was begging to be satisfied.
There was never solace in the so-called purity of one's innocence. This was deliberate, intentional, calculated, done with will.
They wouldn't get away with this.
He was beyond the point of waiting, standing by while rumors of war between two nations - leaders of two nations he had met and bantered with - were now at war. He'd pick a side, that was for sure.
Didn't mean his allegiance would fully be with them, though.
To any casual observer, he simply looked as part of the throng of warriors that were as equally as rumpled and unappealing as he were.
However, it was clearly noticeable that there was something different about him. They way he walked quietly, or the invisible barrier that kept anyone from coming too close. Whether it was from fear or respect, it was unknown.
It was the subliminal sensation that the more astute individuals felt, which forced their distance. The brimming abyss of the sea's expanse, teeming with a vicious and untamed storm awaiting to be unleashed.
As the warriors stomped towards the Achaean camp, he fell behind, his quiet steps echoing over the clash of weapons. His lifeless aura, coupled with the degree of trembling in his limbs only further unease his counterparts as he scanned the area.
They stopped in the middle of their makeshift camp, curious glances that went unnoticed in the empty green orbs, albeit glowing.
These men would never experience a fraction of the pain he had went through.
So he smiled.
Masked his inner demons with a simple grin, and realised sooner or later they'd leave him alone if nothing seemed amiss.
When one assumed how a person particularly acted, less thought was put on a collection of assumptions, and more on accepting said person.
No one knew.
It was something private, to anyone asked, they'd lie. An effortless lie, of charades and masks because the truth was: figuratively, nobody knew each other.
In their eyes, they were kin and friends, comrades and even enemies. It was all as much as a play for them as much as it was for him.
Nowhere was safe.
The time to grieve for his past would be later. He didn't want to do it in front of everyone, to break down. Showing weakness was the first perception of inferiority in the eyes of others.
He stepped forward, facing an old man, clearly the warrior in command and did the first logical thing - bowed in front of him.
"Perseus, son of King Aeneas of Dardania," He simply stated, a brief moment of silence before he ushered everyone.
"There is no need for bowing, not this time anyway. I'd like to offer my sincere condolences, and our apologies for not stepping in earlier." The warrior affirmed.
The murmuring died down as Perseus stood to full height. The tides had died down.
"And we thank you for your trust in us," a stout warrior nodded, the only implication that he had spoken was his shifting beard. "We are all here for a similar cause - the war against the Trojans has begun, if you were not aware. I assume you will find many men with a similar purpose here."
Apologies would not amend his dead mother.
Apologies would not fix his dire situation.
Apologies would not quell his thirst for revenge.
Their words were meaningless.
"Please sit. You are all tired, I assume."
It went without saying that a few men might have toppled over with exhaustion had he not commanded them to.
There was a pregnant pause as a few stumbled around to be seated on the ground. However a few, including him remained standing, unsure of what to do in response.
"You are a brave man," The elderly warrior started, sending a thoughtful glance. "For the good of the war, and for victory, you did what was right, by seeking aid from us."
There was no response as Perseus bowed his head, and the unnerved warriors waited for his answer.
He shook his head slowly, sighing as he locked eyes with each man. "You call me brave for all the wrong reasons. War had never seemed palpable a season ago, yet there is no victory in war. War takes everything and gives nothing."
"There is no substitution for history."
His voice was soft, much like the elderly man's own. They must've thought he was broken. Broken enough to let go, broken enough to give up.
He clenched his jaw.
'You're young, I'll give you that. I was your own tender age when I killed my first man. Perhaps joining our ranks will give you a true taste of what victory is." The warrior remarked, amused.
This man spoke of Victory, as if blessed by the goddess Nike. It went without saying that mortals had truly misunderstood what victory now symbolised.
It did not mean stabbing as many opposing men as possible.
It was not equivalent to topping an empire.
Defeat was not a common word on the Greek tongue. And to taste victory, a lesson in defeat must first be taught.
Perseus clenched his jaw. These men would be doomed to eternal defeat, without the support of numerous Olympians.
Thunder rumbled overhead.
"You have much to learn, child. There is never victory without a truly worthy war."
Perseus pulled a face, thinning his lips. Rain drizzled softly against their skins.
"Now, now, Nestor. You can't honestly be trusting this… Trojan child here already." A man with locks of dark, unkempt hair and glaring caliginous eyes snorted. "What good would it be if he were a scout for them, an infiltrator?"
There was a rumble from the heavens, and the rain fell quicker now. Heavier. Faster. The rest of the men gave the son of Poseidon wary glances as he remained eerily still.
Idonmeneus made to retort but Nestor, clearly in command, was not finished. "Idomeneus of Crete, let the boy speak. I bear no ill will towards him, and if he seeks anything in the form of aid, I shall attempt to fulfill to the best of my ability." Nestor spoke, raising his voice slightly in disapproval.
He had a brief, internal dispute whether or not to reveal his identity. Would they betray him? Wither him down with fake promises? Or would they gladly welcome him with open arms? It was hard to say.
He could see himself lying to them. Taking the long path of lying low until the battle came. He would use his powers to win, at all costs. Yet he could also see himself shunned as a liar, who had broken the trust of old Nestor. He would be used as a godly weapon, forced to fight endless hordes of Trojans simply due to his destructive nature. That thought certainly didn't sit well with him.
Agreeing with the former, he finally decided to speak.
"I am Perseus the Destroyer. Not of Dardania, nor Troy. Slayer of the Minotaur, son of Poseidon, and the child of a deceased mother."
Deep down, he prayed he was correct. He could trust Lady Galatea's word, couldn't he?
Nestor seemed cautious, but was proceeding curious of his ordeal introduction. He was searching - waiting for what came next.
Perseus never failed to disappoint. He would build his reputation in honour of his mother… that he could do.
"And I want revenge."
――――――――――Ψ――――――――――
The walk to the tents was a silent one.
He silently prayed that Nestor would not talk, and it seemed like his prayers were answered.
Perseus could feel the curious looks of by-standing soldiers as they weaved through hundreds of tents, stacked tightly together, chaotically spread in no particular arrangement.
As he was brought to a sizeable tent, he was acknowledged by a man, no older than him, an eminent gaze puzzled at his appearance. His mouth opened then shut, before scowling.
Green eyes met green.
Perseus recognised that face.
"Achilles. Son of Thetis."
He could hear the scrutiny in his voice, the way he crossed his arms at the mention of Thetis. Clearly proud of his godly parentage, and very prideful, even as one of the most powerful living demigods.
"You."
He knew that face from another life ago, another vengeance fueled lifetime ago.
"Welcome to Lyrnessus," the lord of the town acknowledged, taking a step back as Aeneas dismounted his horse. "King Aeneas, Prince Perseus - it is an honour to accommodate both of you today… Come, let us show you the preparations we have constructed so far."
A girl around his age greeted him, and he smiled gratefully as she presented him with a seashell necklace.
The shells clinked and gleamed brightly in the sun, and he bowed his head in thanks as he accepted the gift.
She said, "Lovely to meet you, Prince Perseus. I am Briseis," then gestured to the boys behind her. "These are my brothers."
Outwardly, he could hear himself talking, exchanging words with the teenagers - but the gap in his memory that filled this particular conversation could not remember the specificities.
Her brothers, who were children of the lord of Lyrnessus, had accompanied them throughout the town before leaving.
Briseis had stayed behind to talk, but ultimately left to go find her brothers.
"Perseus, you like the sea, don't you?"
"I've mentioned this before Briseis, address your superiors with their respective titles," the lord sternly reminded Briseis, who merely shuffled with embarrassment.
Perseus pulled a face, brushing away the interruption. "Perseus is fine. And yes, I do love the sea…"
She had laughed, before eying the necklace she had gifted. "Well I'm lucky that my gift suits you perfectly."
For once, he had appreciated that Aeneas had brought him along to tour one of the Kingdom of Dardania's towns closest to the Adriatic sea… and at most risk from a Greek attack.
In all honesty, this was one of the most scenic, beautiful towns of the kingdom that he had visited.
Right next to the sea, where he could feel the splashes of water softly dousing the sand. Slowly, he took a breath, before letting go - savouring the duality of the sun's warmth and the sea's coolness.
Wait.
He was delving into his memories again.
And the feeling of dread crept back over him once more, as clouds gathered in harmony over the sun's gaze.
He knew what would happen.
He could see… fire? And the distant rumbling, under his feet - as the soldiers looked to each other. Fearful of what would happen next.
But not one would rashly claim that this was an attack from the Achaeans - he would be called a fool and told to be silent.
However, the screams would prove that wrong.
The soldiers from Lyrnessus surged forward, sprinting towards the direction of the screams. Their bodies met the oncoming mass of frightened citizens, and were gone.
One of the Dardanian guards - a man no older than Perseus, clenched his spear as he bravely stepped in front of him and Aeneas.
Perseus was grateful he did.
The roaring mass of Greeks surged through the thick smoke of fire - freshly alight, blades flashing, covered with the blood of the innocents. The soldiers at the front of the beach didn't stand a chance as they were overwhelmed. Only their spilt blood indicated that they had died.
Aeneas's guards pulled him away, and into the rear of the town. But he had heard the pleads. The screams for mercy.
A once pristine beach was now stained crimson red… and the colour of red soon followed as the tide rolled out.
A girl, screaming for help could be heard as they moved as a unit through the city, towards the horses. Aeneas and his men halted, contemplating on helping: flight or fight.
"Wait!" Perseus squinted, focusing on the girl lying on the ground. Her body was just ahead of the oncoming smoke, a storm of noxious gas kissing at her heels.
He had no words as he surged forwards to help - to grab her and the boy she pulled along helplessly in her arms - but was immediately pulled back by the guards.
It went without a word that his wishes were to be respected - it would be his choice to save the girl and boy.
Even if his choice would cost each and every one of their lives.
The Dardanian guards stomped forward, their xiphos drawn as two of their number went ahead to grab the teenagers.
Perseus's vision tunneled as he recognised the girl.
"Briseis…"
Her torn skirt, bloody face, and the corpse of her brother in her arms.
"What have they done to you…"
Her eyes were red from crying - or was it blood?
His hand reached out… she was so, so close. But the hazy smoke blurred his vision, made his mind hazy. He would not leave her as Helen did so…
The guards had brought her to her feet, ignoring her protests on not leaving her brother.
He could see her silhouette struggle with the guards in the smoke, kicking, thrashing, refusing to let go.
Her mouth was moving, pleading - but her voice ceased as the roar of the fire grew louder.
Then it stopped.
The two guards tumbled to the floor, unmoving. Puppets dancing in the shadow of smoke, with their strings, suddenly cut. Blood slowly oozed onto the stone-clobbered ground. Around Perseus, the remaining guards tensed, numbly grasping their spears.
Out of the smoke, a figure stepped out.
And grasped within his left hand, was a choking Briseis.
The guards surged forward to meet the stranger, angered by their fallen comrades. They would fulfill their duty of protection, or die trying.
Even with a thrashing girl in one hand, the Greek evaded all slashes, maneuvering within each guard's stroke, going so far as to use the girl's body to wane off attacks from his left.
Like ants, the Dardanian guards swarmed their prey - but each were slowly cut down by the swift, precise slashes.
Numbers did not always equate to predatory victory.
"Go! We'll handle this." One of the remaining guards bravely assured, pushing Perseus and Aeneas towards the horses before sprinting to the aid of his comrades.
His heart hammering within his chest, he turned, glancing at the falling silhouettes that were once his companions.
Dead in seconds.
However, the guards had brought them precious time.
Aeneas had mounted his steed, silent, as he watched his most elite soldiers decimated by a Greek. He knew Aeneas - knew he would be back for revenge, with more numbers than ever.
He could see the man's face now, covered only by a thick layer of blood and gore. His lips curled into a snarl, before his arm lowered his bloody sword. Watching, as they escaped.
Behind him, the town burned brighter than ever before.
He could recount every detail that happened that day. Her blood on his hands, the screams of agony, xiphe clashing, and his gaze on him - watching him ride off to safety.
With blood of Dardanians on his blade.
He knew what fate meant - it was inevitable. But to come to terms with a man who had embraced the cruelty of slaughter and wanted more?
To be frank, it scared Perseus.
He could deal with living with the demigod who had massacred a town and tried to murder him, but in the heat of a battle, the uncertainties were endless.
The fates had truly outdone themselves to make his life miserable.
Nestor looked to the son of Thetis with eyes of steel.
Achilles stared in response, his own expressions featureless, giving away nothing that could be going on within the warrior's mind.
"I've always wondered who is more despicable," Achilles eventually asked. "The pawn, or the player?"
There was a brief silence where Perseus pondered his question before Nestor hastily spoke.
"Enough, Achilles. You and I both know we are pawns, under the voluntary service of Agamemnon. Even so, we are granted the freedom of choice in our strategies, a pleasantry our soldiers unfortunately lack."
Achilles took this as the opportunity to interrupt. "Exactly the point I wish to express. You see, if a commander urges a massacre, you are inclined to do so. If a commander orders a massacre, you are also inclined to do so. At the end of the day, the number of innocent souls killed do not lie on a soldier's morals, but on one's will to survive."
It went without saying that certain execution for ignoring the orders of a superior would not go unnoticed.
"To lose your respect due to misunderstandings, Perseus, would be the last thing on my mind. I have already made countless enemies on the battlefield - I do not need one within my own tent."
His tone, laced with sarcasm, stoked red-hot flames of ire in the Dardanian's heart. But Perseus knew an opportunity at negotiations were waiting for him.
He just needed to answer, with or without lies.
"Your urge to enlighten me of your misunderstandings is of perfectly good reason, a fair point I cannot rebut," Perseus formally acknowledged, keeping his face neutral.
Two could play at this game.
He continued, "and to be frank, we are nobody's pawn, no one's tool. I see myself as a player, a commandeer of these war games, in a world of kill or be killed. But does one's will to survive involve the destruction of morals that you urge to express?"
He slowly breathed out, his eyes dilating as he narrowed them.
"You and I have very different morals, son of Thetis," he finally said. "Do not think so highly of yourself when your will to survive is to capture an innocent maiden and remind her of the death of her family every single day for the rest of her miserable life."
"You stand here, a testament to your failures which you attempt to label as mere misunderstandings."
The game was up, and his facade dropped.
Achilles clenched his jaw, hard enough that from the entrance of the tent, he could see the muscles on his face rippling.
"You have no idea what it's like in the heat of battle! Those hoplites out there - they spread rumours of my conquests through Trojan cities, and the execution of hundreds of demonic Trojans. To not live up to my name as the most powerful demigod in history would be a disgrace to the gods."
Perseus noted he had said rumours… was the massacre not his doing? He decided to keep silent, quietly regarding the lie.
"And tell me, do these rumours not live up to their names? Because strike me down if I'm wrong…" Perseus gestured around wildly, "But didn't you lead the massacre on Lyrnessus? Didn't you massacre my men for saving a girl? To Hades if you believe I care about your destiny. Destiny my ass! You chose to come to Troy. You chose to kill and murder and rape. Do not hide behind your sorry excuse of fate."
With an outraged snarl, the son of Thetis boldly glared into stormy green orbs. "I have started our conversation civilly, paying respect towards both your status and our subsequent allyship. But to have the nerve to disregard my attempts at negotiations, and call my life a lie? My wrath will not be one you want to witness."
The son of Poseidon frowned, briefly looking away from Achilles. As he scanned the room, he came to the realisation that old Nestor had already left.
He understood this as a sign to act upon Nestor's trust - his trust that their quarrels could be resolved peacefully.
Well, he could be wrong.
"For all your pride and respect, you are sorely mistaken," Perseus retorted with a small growl of his own. "You seem to forget your position in our current dispute, as if I require your forgiveness? No. You've done the killing, and whether you repent for forgiveness or happily soak in the blood, I do not care."
"But never, ever, speak as though this were because of any of my transgressions. Their blood is on your hands," the son of the sea god hisses out, his voice hot with distaste.
The two demigods glare at each other, jaws clenched as an oppressive silence reigns. A silence that is broken when Achilles speaks, voice low in obvious anger, albeit tinged with a weariness underneath.
"You speak as though your hands will forever be clean from the blood of the oppressed. Understand, from my point of view, I am merely a warrior, bound by my choices and oaths. And unlike you, I will admit the death of humans innocent and guilty alike. Do not assume more, for your misunderstandings are a falsity of the truth."
Achilles sighed. It wasn't one of resignation or annoyance but one that held his exhaustion.
Perseus sucked in a breath. "And yet… you admit yourself a pawn. Nestor was right. The pleasantries of meeting you have indeed been marred by not misunderstandings, but our past. But that does not mean I forgive you."
He was tired... worn out and sapped of all energy from the past few days. As much as he despised Achilles for his actions, he didn't have the heart to continue to quarrel against a man who simply did not care.
The son of Thetis raised an eyebrow at the sudden change of heart, before quickly adopting a solemn expression. "I certainly believe it is in our best interests to not speak of this matter for now. Again, however, once we are within comfortable standings with one another."
"Well," Perseus sighed, "at the very least, allow me to meet Briseis again."
Achilles had his own retort to bite back, his eyes boring into his own. Eventually, he nodded. "That I can do for you. Anything regarding her release however, I cannot promise."
It was better than nothing. He even had the thin coral necklace she had gifted him years ago.
Achilles extends his hand. But the blood is still there. Fresh crimson blood, flowing freely between his fingertips.
The blood of the people from Lyrnessus.
Perseus hesitates, before turning away from the famed son of Thetis and walking away.
The source of wonder and horror are the same, and the boundary between them thinner than you would think.
Avoiding the past, for now, seems easier.