ACT I, CHAPTER VI
Perseus was exhausted.
Apart from the mental strain of adjusting to Greek politics, there was a strange delight in knowing that most men enjoyed the dexterity of swordsmanship.
Those warriors, whether labeled farmers or hoplites, in simplicity, were all men with their own lives, serving their state until they were called to arms to face the greater enemy.
Each city state was a finger, but combined? They were a fist, headed towards the battlefield known as Troy.
In a sense, he was grateful he had joined them.
Amongst the grudging respect, it was a pitifully acknowledged fact that war was what brought men together or apart.
And as he had learned by Athenian standards, war would most commonly be waged if diplomatic cooperations failed, and the Athenian democratic assembly agreed on the simple necessities: conserving their dignity, pride, and showmanship of duty and power.
His tentmate's voice rang out, clear with the wind.
"To your left!"
Limbs fueled with instinct, he twisted his body to the side, allowing his attacker to stumble past, off-balance.
He had only less than a second to counter before a second aggressor launched ahead, forcing him to lock blades. As the second attacker stood up, he pushed the man's blade away once more and rolled to the side.
Like water, Perseus was swift and fluid. With a flick, he disarmed the first, and elbowed the second in the ribs coming his way.
He sent a sweep to the shins, sending the man stumbling forward, allowing Achilles to finish him with a boot to the back.
Without so much of a pant, they had both bested two men each simultaneously, working in harmony to finish each other's opponents back to back.
The simple, yet satisfying technique of brutal sword fighting he quickly adopted from the Greeks, without the need for harmonious legions, had become an effective way of honing his skills during such times of tension.
Whatever semblance of the treaty between the Greeks and Dardanian Trojans was now gone.
Aeneas and Priam would pay.
His pace quickened with his tentmate's, pirouetting around the newly arrived spear-men, bronze tips jutting experimentally at the two, testing their defenses.
Finding none, they began to sweat.
Spears lashed out at the demigod and he batted them away, the atmosphere growing hazy as he succumbed to the intensely rapid fight.
He had come into training with not a piece of armour, and for a moment, he was grateful without the heavy burden of the stifling bronze. It allowed him a greater enjoyment of flexibility, without tiring.
His forearms tensed, rising to deflect an incoming spearhead before elbowing the man, who went down. The second man, a Spartan circled warily, signalling for his comrades to wait.
Spartans were not as sneaky as Athenians, but their prowess were unmatched throughout Greece.
Luckily, Perseus was not their type of 'Greek'.
Wordlessly, they moved in as a force, minimising all gaps as Perseus was forced to take the defensive.
All sounds of fighting from Achilles had ceased.
The first Spartan gripped the length of his spear tightly, bringing it against the top ridge of his shield. He jabbed experimentally, and Perseus swatted the sprearhead away.
Gradually gaining more confidence, he withdrew his shield to his side before swinging the spear around only to meet…
The son of Poseidon's palm, before he snapped the spear in half.
"I was told the Spartans were the most honourable in battle," Perseus started. "I guess you could say my expectations have been… shattered."
He swore there was a flash of indignant anger - disbelief at his critical words, but the pair simply grinned, before the second man motioned for the prone Achilles to come over. "If you're as powerful as everyone keeps telling me, then you should have no problem taking all three of us."
He was forcing their option of switching to their xiphos… playing right into his territory. However, with the prowess of Achilles now in play, it would be an entirely uphill fight. The Spartans had to be dealt with - fast.
As the group edged nearer, he tensed, embracing the tingle in his senses. He was no strategist but he knew the flaws of their footwork, the Spartan's xiphos was too open, their stance slightly too wide.
Without a sound, both parties lunged.
Noting the space, he slammed the butt of his spear onto the ground, before releasing and kicking the shaft toward one of the warriors.
The sky rumbled, clouds swirling right above the arena but he barely noticed - he was the epicentre of a newly born storm.
He had made his supposed 'peace' with Achilles after yesterday, but that did not mean he wasn't itching to give him the flat side of his blade. It was revenge - an all consuming emotion that seemed to follow everywhere he went.
Aeneas, Aphrodite, Hector, Achilles… the list went on.
But the son of Poseidon was yearning for the emotion of satisfaction - what was a greater reward than seeing your tormentors suffer?
A xiphos came jutting from the side, and he leveraged his spear to deflect and block another incoming xiphos.
Another thrust.
Metal flashed in the fading sunlight, outlining the flying dust that had been stirred up from each scuffle.
He'd use his spear to save his energy for as long as possible, passively defending until he worked out their weaknesses.
His peripherals narrowed, noting the defeated warriors Achilles had bested sprawled on the ground. It seemed that Achilles preferred overpowering his opponents with quick slashes, especially a knockout blow by gaining height through leaping.
He twisted out of the way, drawing Riptide from his hair-clip form.
Nobody was not coming to his aid.
Riptide flashed in a curve, blocking a sweep from both men, before slamming his foot on the ground, creating a resounding shockwave. Just in time to lock blades with Achilles from behind.
Achilles wanted to truly see his prowess in battle.
Well, it was time to show who had true godly heritage.
The son of Thetis brought down an overhand blow, in which the son of Poseidon eagerly met with Riptide. It seemed that the storm had caught the attention a few hundred hoplites, all eagerly watching the epic showdown.
Achilles rolled to the side, recuperating before leaping towards Perseus with renewed vigour. He tightened his grip, twisting to the side and slashing upward to deflect the blade of Achilles before ramming his elbow down on his back.
The son of Thetis iron skin supposedly didn't prevent him from receiving a concussion.
Achilles stumbled, pointing his blade towards Perseus - his mouth fixed into a snarl. He'd never seen him as angry as this - and it seemed that it was not just victory on the line.
It was his everything. His pride.
Getting back on their feet, the Spartans were quick to engage him once more, albeit more warily. They flanked the son of Thetis, before surrounding Perseus on all sides.
He knew this was merely a practice for what was to come. But gods, what if this was real? A real fight amongst a battle, where every situation, every strike of a sword counted?
No more uncontrollable rage, he needed to reign in his emotions and control the power at his disposal.
Then he wouldn't let that pressure get to him.
For all that mattered, he would become the best.
He thought of his mother, the look on her face during his endless sword training sessions. Of Helen's laugh, the way she could light up his darkest, most foul moods. Or of Zoe, all the moments they had shared together.
They were his anchor to life - they were the reason he had chosen to defy the odds and prove them all wrong.
And as the storm faded, his thoughts went quiet. It was no longer a storm, it was the softest drizzle of rain showering their cuirasses in the sunlight reflecting off.
All three, with waning confidence, wanted this fight over. Noting their determined expressions, there was no doubt about that.
If they wanted to best him so badly, Hades, he would let them try.
Dodging ever so slightly, he sent a spray of sparks against two, locking their swords together in a struggle whilst pushing off their heavy chest-plates.
With the combined weight of his foot and his bronze armour, the Spartan fell, growling.
Perseus ducked under the second Spartan's blade, ramming his elbow into his skull. His hands wrenched his xiphos free, using the butt of both blades to knock the man unconscious.
For a moment, he contemplated about the use of his full godly powers, before shaking the thought off. That would be unfair.
Real expertise had to be earnt fairly.
The first Spartan stood once more, and he couldn't help but admire his resilience. The Spartan xiphos felt foreign in his left hand, starkly contrasted by the perfect balance of Riptide. No matter… duel wielding couldn't be too difficult.
The ground shook as the two crossed swords. With the advantage of two swords, Perseus pressed harder, angrier, forcing the Spartan to try his best to maintain his footing. Without hesitation, he brought Riptide overhead, slamming the flat of the blade against the Spartan's temple. The Spartan was fast, yet his reflexes had failed him. He crumpled, but was able to roll away in time.
Taking the initiative, Perseus lunged, closing the distance rapidly to prevent his contender's shield defenses to close.
Closing in, he ducked just in time, a spear missing by a mere inch, before slamming the hilt of Riptide into the man's head. All done in one swift moment.
It looked like it would take much more for the first Spartan to be knocked unconscious.
The Spartan from earlier lunged but the demigod was quicker, easily sidestepping to open his defenses to the left. Feet dancing, eyes alight with exhilaration.
Scrambling to recover his form, the Spartan snatched the moon-shaped shield from the ground, placing his spear into the nook before charging.
This man had no obvious tempo, which made it so much easier to feint thrust through his defenses, and leave his side open.
Some men just never learn from mistakes.
The Spartan counter thrust, his feet shuffling against the dirt, dropping his spear and drawing his xiphos in one swift motion just in time to block Perseus's slash.
Even with his heightened reaction speed, he had no time to parry as the demigod pounced forward, only to quickly retreat, leaving the Spartan's xiphos shoot to the side of his chest out of reflex, inflexible to defend.
With a flick of Riptide, the man was at last, unconscious on the ground.
On cue, the second Spartan stood, hefting his comrade's xiphos. Perseus nodded to himself, taking a deep breath. This would be the last time that Spartan stood up to fight again.
Siphoning his momentum, the son of Poseidon charged, using both arms to bring Riptide vertically, blocking simultaneous blows from the remaining Spartan and Achilles.
This turned out to be a mistake.
The second Spartan growled, using the side of his blade to slip below Riptide and slash, opening a shallow cut along the demigod's torso.
There was a moment of silence before all hell broke loose.
Perseus snarled, blocking Achilles' xiphos with Riptide, and punching the Spartan in the face. On both sides, they recovered, lunging from both sides, thinking they could actually win this confrontation.
He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
Regaining his senses, he ducked, picking up a spear and lashing towards the Spartan. His dominant foot tensed, timing the right moment to spin to the side, tucking his knees for a roll.
Crouching, he faced the two, now in a much more favorable position.
Unlike the previous men he had defeated, the Spartan proved more rational in such easily provoked duels, where pride was at stake, where tempers rose. Achilles was a different story. Their lack of dynamic could be exploited.
For a moment, he wished he had bought daggers for closer combat, but knew that would have to come with wearing armour.
Taught by Aeneas's men, they had long enforced a rule that to be trained, a full set of armour must be worn. And of course, Perseus had disobeyed at every chance, angering his trainers with his unorthodox way of fighting.
Like a crazed Greek, they said.
How ironic, given his current circumstances.
As if Tyche were with him, the Spartan grew annoyed, lashing out - not far enough, and for a second too long - hindered by the straps of his chest plate. Striding forward, the demigod swept his leg forward, hacking down hard on the Spartan's skull.
He would not give them the satisfaction of knowing he was scared, that he was afraid of being merciful. Did powerful warriors - Odysseus, Ajax, Diomedes - turn a blind eye to his presence, to hide their fear of what he personified as such a dangerous individual?
Nobody trusted him. Much less Achilles.
To consider them as friends would be as unprejudiced as his hate for the Trojans: if the gods could not act as judge, jury, or executioner, he would do it himself.
Greek or Trojan, they were all the same.
Perhaps this was where his mistrust or lack of loyalty began. They weren't his friends. They didn't deserve his loyalty or his shield behind their backs. They just needed this war won, with or without his help.
He didn't have time to breathe before Achilles was on him, sparks arcing off his blade as he struck Perseus' newly acquired Spartan xiphos again and again. Each clash of blades caused the ground to shudder, and Perseus could slowly feel the xiphos giving way.
Perseus retaliated, pouring his energy into driving the son of Thetis back. But Achilles' blows were heavier, and he was physically stronger. The force of the storm around them increased, battering Achilles back as he tried to relentlessly use brute force to overcome his opponent.
Achilles leaped towards Perseus, the force of his strike so intense that he knew this was the xiphos' breaking point.
He felt the xiphos give way, shattering into numerous pieces that were swept up within the remnants of his storm and away.
Locking down on the two swords harder, he twisted, disarming both before twisting just in time to parry Achilles' blade, spinning in a full revolution.
Unconcerned about his rival's wide swing, the son of Poseidon took this as a chance to gather momentum, spinning once in a circle before landing a mighty blow on the son of Thetis.
The blow was enough to dent the man's armour. But this was Achilles - he remained undeterred at the dent on his cuirass and continued to advance.
Perseus allowed him to cut loose. A overhand slash, a pivot to dodge the response, and a sweeping strike that rang off the shaft of Achilles' xiphos sharply. As locked as their weapons were, Perseus managed to hook the ankle of Achilles and trip him up, but the demigod's footwork was the best he had ever seen. His foot expertly slipped out of reach, his xiphos levelled at Perseus to keep him away.
When Achilles moved, it was instant. Rather than give his opponent more room, Perseus twisted away and rolled, his free hand coming up in a punch that connected against the side of Achilles' head, causing him to stumble.
A roar of rage was his answer, and his xiphos swept upwards in an instant. Achilles made him pay for his momentary second of carelessness with a shallow gash in the middle of his chest.
They separated briefly before glaring at one another, then reengaged - both realising that this duel would be decided by a strength of endurance.
His storm was dying out, the droplets of rain no longer felt invigorating falling onto his skin.
Again and again the sound of xiphos against xiphos rang against one another, beads of sweat dripping down from both men's foreheads.
Time seemed to slow as Achilles' blade arced, crackling energy carving a deadly path towards Perseus. His eyes widened, and he felt a tug in his gut as he willed the water to form a hardened wall in front of him… but it just wasn't enough.
The son of Thetis' brute strength and agility with his xiphos was unmatched, sending Riptide flying out of his hands as the blades connected, sending shockwaves across the area.
And then it was over.
Perseus fell to the ground, breathing heavily. If it weren't for the wall, he would've likely been dead. It seemed that Achilles would not have held back regardless if he had been wearing armour or not. He grimaced as the cold tip of Achilles' xiphos rested on his neck.
A feeling of emptiness ate at him. What could he even do? It didn't matter if he was a son of Poseidon - one of the three most powerful gods. If a son of a sea spirit could beat him senseless merely due to invulnerable skin, what hope was there?
But the sensation of anger was back as he heard the sound of… laughter?
Achilles was laughing, entertaining the crowd that had amassed as he brought both arms up in celebration.
'Just a practice sparring session,' he internally scoffed. Malakas.
He looked up to see the smug face of Achilles staring down at him, and a blind fury raced through him. He had told himself to limit his usage of godly abilities during the fight, but it seemed that if Achilles was taking this victory so seriously, he would too.
Perseus felt a shiver run down the back of his spine, the same sensation when he had first summoned the storm. The ground around them was strewn with remnant puddles of the storm, and he felt the familiar tug of his gut as he grasped control over every droplet.
The son of Poseidon chuckled loudly, pushing himself up. "Your pride blinds you, Achilles! Your need to win is going to be the cause of your downfall… mark my words."
Achilles stalked forward as the crowd grew silent, turning the hilt of his blade within his palm.
"Spoken like a true warrior who has ungraciously lost," he smirked. "Do I need to put you in your place again?"
Against Achilles, or even every other Achaean he had duelled, he had clearly given them too much respect. He hadn't taken the threat they posed seriously, and had been treating it like a game. It clearly wasn't just a game to Achilles, so not it wasn't to him either.
He could only blame himself for his loss.
If he ended this duel on a loss.
With the son of Thetis bearing down at him, Perseus should have at least felt a bit of fear. The moment he swung his xiphos, Perseus summoned the tendril of water around the blade and flung it to the side. The second tendril reached up, curling around his leg, before yanking him down onto the ground.
"You can try," Perseus smirked.
He tightened his grip on the tendril, before sending Achilles flying straight towards Perseus' coiled fist.
A crunch resounded throughout the arena, with the force of the punch sending Achilles flying across the ground. Perseus doubted his nose could be broken with the Styx's blessing, but it had definitely felt satisfying.
Perseus clenched his fist, drawing up an array of tendrils behind him. He breathed out, allowing the water to encompass his chest, arms, legs, head - hardening into solid armour as the water grew colder and colder…
He was ready for round two.
But Achilles wasn't done - no, Perseus would be foolish to admit he had gotten the better of the demigod by using a sly tactic. Achilles had already pulled himself up and leapt towards him once more, xiphos drawn and ready to meet Riptide -
"Gentlemen!"
Nestor's voice rung out clearly across the arena, and suddenly the assault on his senses was no longer so visceral. Bit by bit, the pieces of his armour slowly seeped back into the ground.
Achilles had grown still, but the whitening of his knuckles suggested that it was a level of pure restraint that was holding him back from slashing Perseus to bits.
Old Nestor sounded impatient as he gestured for the two demigods to follow.
"Clear your head of any quarrels you have towards one another," he intoned. '"We are to make haste, the Captain's assembly has already started… and we can't miss a single word for Agamemnon shall find another excuse to provoke us."
Perseus nodded in response, warily sheathing Riptide as he saw Achilles doing the same. It seemed as if the duel had taken a toll on both men, and on the Achaean soldiers alike, as a collective breath was released after the departure of the two powerhouse demigods.
Achilles' demeanour had relaxed significantly, but it was obvious the duel was far from finished - his refusal to meet Perseus' eyes and the clenching of his jaw said much more.
The severity of the meeting was revealed when Perseus spotted every king of Greece assembled before the meeting table. He knew he was invited to this meeting as a courtesy from Nestor, but he couldn't help but feel alienated from the kings and princes he stood amongst.
In the middle, the hearth crackled, illuminating the stark expressions of Calchas and Agamemnon amongst others.
"I'm sure you're all aware of the plague Apollo has set upon her, caused by none other than the kidnapping of Chryses by Agamemnon," Calchas the seer addressed. "By the will of Apollo, he demands that his daughter be returned with no ransom, or more death will follow."
There were curled lips, furrowed eyebrows, and glares - all directed at their leader.
This was barely the emotional extent of most Greek leaders as they murmured angrily around the campfire.
"You bird of ill omen! You always speak against me, and your prophecies are all of doom. Yes, I refuse to give up the girl. She's mine! She is more pleasing to me than my own wife, Clytemnestra!" Agamemnon rebutted, pointing an accusing finger toward Calchas, who stood next to an irritated Achilles.
The campfire seemed to burn brighter as each strategos from every state of Greece now shuffled with uneasiness.
Agamemnon paused, before amending.
"Yet if it is true, I shall do what Calchas wishes, but heed me: I shall have another woman in her place," he demanded. "How would I look if I, the Lord Marshall, lost his prize?"
These men kneel before Agamemnon's throne, call upon their men to fight a war in his honour, unaware it was born of lies.
"All the spoils of war have been shared out." Achilles retaliated, raising his eyebrow towards the foolish Marshall. "What woman shall be offered to satisfy your pride, Agamemnon? When will you learn to acknowledge your greed?"
Each strategeos murmured their agreement, much to the anger of the Lord Marshall.
"Perhaps I shall have your woman Achilles. Or Odysseus's, or Ajax's, or any I choose. That man may choke on rage, but let him! The prize shall be mine." Agamemnon smirked, waving the subject away, ordering a herald to fetch Chryseis back to her father.
Never had Perseus despised a man more than Agamemnon. Yet he forced himself to calm down, as every other man did. Showing his true emotions would do him no good. This drama was certainly not what he signed up for, when he first spoke with wise Nestor.
Would it really come to a war between Gods? Troy and Greece, with their respective siding gods on each side, a civil war with the immortals? He mentally slapped himself again. What was he thinking? This was ridiculous, it wouldn't come to that.
He hoped.
The son of Thetis hissed, and Perseus's hand clenched around Riptide once more.
Achilles ground his teeth together, his hand reaching towards his xiphos. "You overbearing, shameless, greedy fool! How can any man obey you in battle after you threaten to take from us by force what was given fairly?"
He faced the smug Lord Marshall, pointing his finger at him heatedly. "I have no quarrel with the Trojans, but I came on your behalf, to help your brother retrieve his wife. So is this how you reward me? Well, I've had enough. This time I'll sail for home, and leave you here to face the wrath of Hector and his men," Achilles snarled.
"Calm yourself Achilles…" Perseus warned, clenching his jaw at what was about to unfold.
Agamemnon shrugged, uncaring. "Go then! Desert like a coward. But I'll tell you now that I will take Briseis, your 'pretty little prize'. Let no man think he can thwart the will of Agamemnon."
Achilles' jaw clenched, his hand creeping towards his gold-studded blade at his side as he ignored the words of Perseus.
As he was about to lash out, an ethereal hand grabbed his braid, pulling him back. Perseus quietly sucked in a breath at what he saw, and so did Achilles. Both men quickly recognised the woman, who was radiating the blue aura of Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom.
Strangely enough, no one else noticed the goddess' presence.
"Lady Athena - daughter of Zeus, why do you appear here?"
"Hera sent me to quell your rage. Hold your hand, hero. Soon you'll be repaid many times over, and endless glory will be yours," Athena said. Her resolved demeanour hardened and revealed eyes that glowed with anger. "Do not use your sword, cut him with your words. Tell him that you shall not leave, but will watch as the Achaeans suffer".
It was, to put simply, do or die.
With a flash, she was gone.
Taking the initiative, the son of Thetis grabbed the sceptre from Agamemnon, his fist clenching as he pointed it at their corrupt leader.
"Agamemnon! I swear by this staff - this branch which will never sprout again, which is used to dispense the justice of Zeus - that there will come a day not far off, when you and every Achaean soldier will pray for the aid of Achilles. Yet I shall withhold myself to your aid, even as Hector slaughters your men by the thousands. Then you'll tremble in fear and remorse for this dishonour done to me." He bellowed, slamming the sceptre down onto the ground.
A serene whisper caressed the minds of both demigods. Good. Olympus is watching.
"And now he withdraws from the war," Aphrodite affirmed, a small smile gracing her features. She had expected the goddess of wisdom to have seen through her lies of stopping Achilles from aiding in the war, but with Achilles gone, everything would go according to plan. If Athena wanted the Achaean victory, then all the better. Her pride would be her loss.
But in the end, the gods have all done terrible things to ensure they would emerge victorious when the end came. If that meant Aphrodite had to sacrifice hundreds, if not thousands of lives, then so be it.
She would do it a hundred times over.
And that was that.
Now, as the tide of the war began to change, Troy would stand more powerful than ever.
The plan was flawless, absolutely perfect. Except for one particular demigod: Perseus. The prospect of swaying his will through any form of distraction was unthinkable, and as a radical of the war, she would make sure Perseus would be fighting for his place to survive.
Sending the Minotaur his way, had in fact, failed miserably.
But if anyone could stop the demigod, Aphrodite would proudly admit she could break him.
'He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby becomes a monster. And if you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you'
- Friedrich Nietzsche