When the early rays of dawn woke Achilles, filtering through the branches of the oak like a million tiny spears of light, he was alone.
A thrill shot through him as he remembered the night before. Soft lips against his, gentle hands touching him all over, the stars illuminating the many folds of her dress as she lifted it over her head. He snapped back to reality, blushing, feeling like his age for the first time since his mother died.
Then reality struck, and he was once more the grizzled general.
She was betrothed to another. What had happened last night alone was grounds for war, the insult more than any of the stuck up aristocrats could. To push it further was to ensure such a war happened.
And yet… Achilles remembered the stories of a time when it didn't matter. Stories of a time when men did things not merely for survival, but because they felt right. Because they were true. He had once believed in them, and though that child was long dead, for a second last night, Achillies thought he had seen its shadow.
He slowly rose to his feet, got dressed and began to make his way out of the garden, his mind whirling with thoughts and emotions. Illuminated in dawn's light, the garden was even more magnificence than ever, but without Helena at his side, it was but a pale shadow of its starry compatriot.
He made his way into the great hall, and managed to corner one of the servants.
“May I inquire about the wearabout of Lady Helena?” he asked, trying to sound as formal as possible.
“Lady Helena of Ryiah?”
Achilles nodded, wondering how she had managed to hide her origins from him, even in their moment of deepest intimacy. Ryiah was another of the mightiest city-states, and its union with Amaj was a cause for great concern.
Still, he didn't particularly care. He just wanted to see her once more.
“She departed this morning with the delegation from Amaj. Apparently she is engaged to their crown prince. The announcement caused quite the stir this morning.”
He froze, and briefly closed his eyes in frustration.
It wasn't till the servants trembling “sir?” that he realized he had lost control of his aura, and quickly reigned it in.
Embarrassed and angry, he grabbed a bit of bread and headed back to his room.
His delegation was supposed to leave early in the morning, and judging by the amount of light filtering through the windows, he was late.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, he emerged from the stables with his small bag of belongings to find the delegation from Mystria already saddled and ready to go. Most of them shot him dirty looks as he passed, scorn plainly visible on his face, but a few, his soldiers, looked at him with worry until he waved he was fine. At the head of the procession, Diognes, the reigning king of Mystria looked upon Achilles with a neutral expression.
He was a powerful looking man, with curly brown hair and a strong jaw, no more than a decade Achillies senior. Under his gaze most would have found themselves wilting, but not Achilles. He simply saddled up his horse, and hopped upon its back.
“Achilles” Diognes finally denied to speak, “What was the cause of your delay?”
Achilles didn't even bother to look at him. “Nothing.”
There were a few light gasps at his breach of decorum, but Achillies couldn't care less.
Everyone knew how Diognes had gotten his throne anyways.
Diognes said nothing, and they rode off into the morning sun together.
Towards home.
—-----------------------------------------
The first night, all anyone could talk about was the marriage of Helena and Hector and the political ramifications of Ryiah and Amaj joining forces. Together, they said, they stand a chance against the rest of the city-states.
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Achilles listened with half an ear, catching the scraps of conversation from their fire a few dozen feet away, absentmindedly drawing lines through his fire with a stick while his men beside him joked and laughed. Although he technically had the standing to sit with the aristocrats he much preferred the company of his men.
But tonight, the only thought in his head was of Helena. Of her witty words, her flawless skin, but mostly of her fierce spirit, burning to be free. He wondered what she was feeling right now, forced to travel back to Amaj alongside Hector.
It filled him with rage, but also a profound sense of sadness.
He let out a low sigh.
His captain, beside him, finally grew sick of his mopping and punched him on the arm.
“C’mon Achil, what's wrong? You were late, and you’ve been moping all day.”
The other men quickly chimed in the agreement and turned to Achilles. He looked at the dozen men beside him, his captains and commanders, chosen as the honor guard for this event. They were men he had fought beside many times, men he would trust his life with.
He told them.
It came spilling out like a flood, and his men upon realizing the seriousness of the topic, immediately shielded the conversation from the aristocrats with a new load of sap filled wood in the fire, and settled down, focusing on him with attentiveness that would have reduced a lesser man to a gibbering wreck.
He told them of how he met here, of her witty words and deep insights. Of her flawless figure and flowing hair. He told them of their night under the tree, and the connection he could feel forming between them. And he told them how she was engaged, and gone.
Of how she so desired to be free, and how he desired it too.
When he was done, his men were silent for a long moment.
Then, Petrol, one of his most trusted captains spoke. “Well, shit.”
Immediately, the rest erupted into exclamations and the familiar energy brought a brief smile to Achilles face.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Petrol yelled, and the rest quieted down. “Ok, so what’s the plan?” he asked Achilles.
“What plan?”
“The plan to get her back, obviously.”
Achilles just stared at him.
“What, you’re just going to give up? I say we ambush the Amaj convoy and bust her out.”
“They threatened her sisters. Her own family. They’re holding her sisters hostage to make sure she goes through with it.”
Petrol winced. “That makes things a bit more difficult.”
He lapsed into a thoughtful silence and for a few minutes, nothing beside the crackle of the fire and the murmur of the aristocrats' conversation audible.
It was one of the younger officers that finally broke the silence. “Why don’t we just… officially make an offer for her hand. I mean, if the general doesn’t qualify, who does?”
Petrol was on his feet in an instant. “That’s brilliant. I’ll draft a proposal right now!”
“What about the king?” someone asked.
Petrol waved a hand dismissively. “This is for the good of the kingdom. I’m sure he’ll agree.”
“Petrol” Achilles finally found his voice. “This is dangerous. I can’t in good consciousness let you risk your life for this. I-”
“General” Petrol interrupted. “We owe you everything. Our lives. Our families. And we have watched for years as everyone and everything tries to push you down, even as you endure for us, even as you shield us. You bear the weight of the world on your shoulders. It's all we can do is prevent that burden from growing.”
Achilles found himself nodding, a spark of hope flaring within himself.
Petrol brightened, and with a salute got to his feet and turned to go.
“Petrol?”
“Yes”
“Thank you.”
Another salute and he was gone.
—-----------------------------------------------
The next night, after having drafted a proposal and gotten it reviewed by every soldier currently with them, Petrol took off. The aristocrats didn't even notice he was gone.
The rest of the journey home was normal, and with Petrol assurances, Achilles was able to return to his normal routine. Just that spark of anxiety and hope burned within him, bringing back a hint of light he had thought long lost.
On the seventh day, they arrived. Looking at Mystria filled Achilles' heart with joy. It was a squat city, home to slightly over 30,000, with simple thick walls, surrounded by a sprawl of farmland and small towns under its protection.
At the gates, they split, the aristocrats going to their castles, and Achilles and his met heading west to their encampment. The men cheered and yelled as they entered, and were met with a storm of affectionate cursing from their officers.
Achilles smiled and took a deep breath.
The air smelled of sweat and iron.
He was home.