I have had this epilogue written for over a year, and it is my honor to be able to share it with you at last. Again, please let me know your thoughts! If the final chapter was dedicated to my readers, then I dedicate this epilogue to Achilles and Adara.

Epilogue

The cart beneath her creaked and shook as a pair of handsome, chestnut oxen pulled Adara and the driver down the road. The creatures snorted and foamed slightly in the heat, but they were well tempered and would be a well-intentioned gift when she arrived. The path itself was mostly well kept, except for the occasional stone or divot which would send Adara and her few crates of possessions sliding around the back of the cart.

They had been fortunate with good weather on their trip from Pythia – no rain had touched them and they had run into no trouble, even during their stay in Athens. Now, nearing two weeks into their journey, Adara could feel the swelling within her chest, a tension that she had not felt for two and ten summers. What if I am not welcomed? What if he is not there to receive me? The sun beating down upon her blue shawl warmed the back of her head, luring her into a false sense of security.

"We should be there by the end of the day," Adara's driver said over his shoulder, his dark brown eyes scanning the hills and dry, dusty land around them.

"Good, good," she replied with ease, her voice sounding more exhausted that she would have liked. With a smirk to herself, Adara recalled her first great journey – it had been by ship and she had been a prisoner, not to mention much younger. Now, she was a guest and her hair was gray.

"When was the last time you saw him?" Cotho, her young cart driver asked aloud. This question made Adara pause, racking her brain back some twenty years since the last time she had seen the tanned, simple face.

"It would have been the day he left. He was one of the first, anxious to get home I suppose after the whole ordeal before someone else could steal his prize away," Adara chuckled. As she recalled, the memories came floating back one by one as if from the fog of her mind. Only forty and two summers old and I feel as if I have lived for one-hundred she mused. She could recall how Menelaus had hugged her tightly, an embrace more tender than she had expected, and then pulled away as swiftly as the hold started.

"Don't let the fool hearted son-of-Achilles get you killed on your way home," he'd instructed brashly. "Although, I suppose if he did, there would be others waiting for you in Hades."

"Neoptolemus is as proud as his father, but also as skilled. He will protect me," Adara had responded, squinting up at Menelaus' face in the hot, Trojan sun. Menelaus had seemed to agree with this conclusion, and with one final farewell and kiss to her brow, he had taken Helen's hand, led her up the gangplank, and set sail for Sparta, leaving Adara to watch on the sand until the red sails sank into the horizon.

And Adara had been right. Neoptolemus had protected her, in fact more fiercely than she could have ever imagined. The young Prince had shocked Adara to her knees when she first beheld him, but after a while, she had become accustomed to his haunting presence, how he often sent Myrmidon guards with her into the forest while she bathed or performed work around the camp. Of course it had been years since Neoptolemus sent an armored guard to track her every step. It had taken years, but he'd come to trust her, maybe even love her. She had never asked him.

And when they had left Troy, finally raising the black sails that lay dormant for so many years to send off their gold, Neoptolemus had protected her then too. When the young Myrmidon Prince lay siege to the land of Molossus and took rule, he gave Adara private quarters and often called her in to deal with matters that pertained to the ruling of his home. When Andromache, whom he'd married in the intervening years, mother of his children, attempted to have her thrown out for the status that she held in Neoptolemus' household, the Prince laughed and dismissed the demand with the wave of his hand. When Hermione, the daughter of Menelaus and Helen and Neoptolemus' second wife, asked the same, he threatened to send her back to Sparta, and whenever visitors from far off lands came to visit Molossus, he introduced Adara as the widow of Achilles. It seems I became your queen in the end, Achilles Adara mused, thinking of his promise those many years ago, of the lie she and Odysseus had told.

But Menelaus had been right too – there would be many shades waiting for her in Tartarus, the number increasing slowly as the nights came and went. Of course Achilles and Patroclus, sorest lost, most dearly missed, who's words and voices still echoed in Adara's mind as if they spoke just around some corner she could not reach. Actor, the father of the Myrmidon camp; Automedon, who had died in her arms in the final few days of battle; Lanassa, who had been taken by a fever as they packed to return to Greece, and Melitta, who had died in childbirth only six summers prior, Adara by her bedside.

And then there had been those Adara had not been there to see and had only heard of through long overdue messengers sent to Neoptolemus. She had wept for three days and three nights when she heard of the death of Odysseus, the bard recounting his ten year journey home only to be driven mad over the next ten years by his patron Athena, who sent him warmongering and longing for adventure across the seas, finally to be killed by mistake by his son through Circe. Diomedes had returned home only to find that Argos had a new king, and been forced to journey to Italy where he set up a new realm. Aeneas found him many years later and murdered him, vengeance for all the Trojans Diomedes had killed so long ago.

Nestor and Phoenix both passed from old age, bringing Adara some peace that her friends might not all have met gruesome ends, and Agamemnon was murdered by his wife and son – something that brought Adara vicious pleasure when she imagined how the color would fade from his piggish face. Neoptolemus had thrown a feast that night.

And now, Adara's final defender and friend had been taken from her. Neoptolemus himself had died only a few moons prior, murdered while at prayer in Delphi by Orestes – Agamemnon's son, who believed that Hermione had been promised to him. When the news had reached Adara, she had been in Pythia with Peleus and Neoptolemus' children, waiting for Neoptolemus to return with Hermione and for them to once again journey back to Molossus.

The messenger had shaken as he delivered the news to Peleus, the king old and frail, who seemed shrunken upon the throne where once he might have dominated the hall. Adara, for her part, had not wept, only leaving the hall after she saw that the messenger was given a cot and food, walking from the palace to the beaches where Peleus told her Achilles and Patroclus once ran as children. I have no tears left to cry Adara had thought as she walked, feet in the surf, glancing out over the water in the direction that she assumed Troy must lay, where Achilles and Patroclus' ashes were mingled and buried in an urn. Hermione had been captured, and once again she was lost without a ward. Patroclus had died for his friend, Achilles for honor, but Neoptolemus had deserved more. He had always deserved more, and Adara had not been able to give it too him.

The final news that had reached her had come only days prior as she gathered her meager possessions in preparation to travel to this final home. Lyrnessus, her far off place of birth, had been captured by the Persians. Any hope that her family yet lived extinguish, leaving her quite alone.

Adara had out-lived them all, she considered as the cart rolled along beneath her. She, the simple handmaiden to an unworthy queen. She, who had lain with princes and survived sieges and plagues and advised kings, still lived and breathed. The irony was not lost upon her. It had broken her at first, and then hardened her, finally bringing about resolution. Clearly the gods intended her to tread along as they saw fit, interweaving yet with the great men of Greece, feeling the final ripples of their power and influence before they faded away forever. The men who fought in Troy had never found rest, even after the war, so why should she?

And now, as the sun began to creep downward in the west, Apollo's chariot plodding steadily along as it always did, she was traveling to the last safe house she had – the last friend. Menelaus had protected her once during her time of need, and she had written to him, asking for his shelter once again. She had felt haunted by the halls of Achilles' and Neoptolemus' father, seen the loathing in Peleus' eyes every time he looked at her, Adara serving as a reminder for the son and grandson he had lost. Helen had responded on the king's behalf, even her letter writing more beautiful than any Adara had ever seen, assuring her that she was always welcome in Sparta.

"Adara, that is city before us," Cotho said, interrupting Adara's many years of reverie. Turning, she looked out over the valley, seeing before her many white, haphazard looking buildings on either sides of a wide, snaking river. It had a pleasant appearance, nestled between great mountains with pale green fields where the herdsmen must tend to their sheep and goats.

"Is that the palace, there?" Adara asked, pointing to a large white structure just above the rest of the buildings. It was not as tall as Peleus', nor as grand as Molossus, but it had a simple, sturdy appearance that reminded Adara of its king.

"Aye," Cotho replied, cracking the reigns again.

Again, Adara felt the swelling in her chest, feeling a mixture of panic and excitement she had not felt for countless years. With nothing to do, she looked down and the crates at her feet, bearing the items of her life. They were filled with chitons given to her long ago in Troy by a blonde haired, tempest-eyed prince, and with jewels from the halls of Troy and Molossus. Peleus had given her a reflecting glass, and when she had left Pythia, she had taken with her Achilles' practice lyre from his youth, his personal one burned with him alongside his ash wood spear long ago upon his pyre in Troy.

When they reach the town, young children peered from windows at the cart, their brown eyes boring into her skin. She was reminded of when Patroclus led her from Achilles' ship to the Myrmidon camp, of the calls and stares of the Achaean soldiers, of her fear then, of her feeling of undeniable safety beside Patroclus.

They approached the Palace with ease where two guards stepped forward to ask them their purpose. Adara stared numbly at their armor, as if she had stepped back into a dream, or more likely one of her countless nightmares of Troy. It is so familiar.

"Adara, this way," Cotho said, helping her down from the back of the cart, hardly giving her any time to think as they made their way up. Her breathing was fast, her head spinning so rapidly she feared it might fall off her shoulders. She wanted to run, to turn tail and flee to the ocean – sail back to Troy or to some far off land. What if I reach the throne room and find another upon the throne? It was the worst thought she could imagine. Keeping her eyes fixed sorely upon Cotho's feet before her, she followed him blindly as they wove through quiet, peaceful hallways. The coins in her blue chiton jingled loudly, it's summer shade providing some small form of armor.

At last the walls in her periphery pulled away and they came to a halt, in some kind of grand hall. The tension that had haunted her journey reached an unbearable point, Adara's blood pounding in her ears, nausea threatening to send her meager breakfast onto the floor.

"Euanthe," a voice chuckled, reaching to her like a memory buried deep in the innermost folds of her mind. Adara's head snapped up, adrenaline pulsing through her – only Menelaus could know that name. And sure enough, as her hazel eyes looked outward, she found the familiar ruddy complexioned, soft-eyed face of Menelaus' staring down at her, the hair at his temples a deep silver, the lines in the corners of his eyes more pronounced, and yet heart wrenchingly familiar. To his right sat Helen, her lips pursed in a small smile, swathed in white and as close to a breathing statue of perfection as Adara had ever seen.

"Or perhaps I should call you, Adara," Menelaus' continued. "I know who you are."

Adara smiled, feeling her chest release, sucking air into her lungs as if she had never breathed until now.

"Menelaus," she said with a bow. "Helen," she added, turning to address his wife. Both inclined their heads when she spoke their names. "Hestia keep your fires and Zeus your home. Thank you for welcoming me."

"Come, Adara, Helen," Menelaus spoke, getting to his feet and offering Helen his hand. "Let us eat – we have much to speak of and twenty years to reflect upon."

With smiles between the three of them, as if they shared some secret jest, Adara followed the pair out of the hall and onto a sunlight balcony where a splendid meal awaited them.

{{{}}}

Achilles stood by the cliff's edge, staring with impatience across the waters for the familiar golden sail that brought the next spirit. They always knew when another was coming, though few and far between, for the westward wind would blow ceaselessly and the waves would crash with thunder upon the white cliff faces below.

Beside him, Patroclus gripped his shoulder, fingers digging deep into his skin, although it caused no pain. Not for the first time had he wished that he could jump into the water below and swim across the oceans to where others remained. He knew he would not drown – his mother was a goddess of the sea. But the first time he had attempted it, Hermes had arrived and pulled him back upon his golden sailed ship, humor dancing in the plucky god's eyes.

"It is one way – they will be here soon enough," he had cajoled.

And they had come, he and Patroclus and countless other spirits had been there to welcome Odysseus who no longer bore the strain of his madness and Diomedes and Antilochus and others whose names and faces were familiar to Achilles. They had greeted them and told them of their tales above and always he had asked of her, but few could tell tale except what they had heard. She lived, she was with his son.

But Neoptolemus had come too, a few years before, his hair glowing red upon the bow of Hermes ship, and Achilles had wept as he beheld his child for the first time. Neoptolemus had been the greatest font of information – she had never married, she was in Pythia when Neoptolemus died, his father had liked her.

And yet even the twenty years of memories that his son shared with him was not enough. Glaring at the waters, he wanted to curse the gods, but knew they were no longer listening. Here, in this blessed realm, he had passed beyond their everyday cares.

"It is her, I know is must be," Patroclus murmured, the strain in his voice resonating with the pressure in Achilles chest. Achilles felt himself longing to run, to expel some of the energy bottled within him. There had been no arrivals since his son – no one to tell him where she was, who she was with, if she was well. If she lived he attempted not to think – there was no guarantee that the gods would bring her this far. Hades may have claimed her as his own.

At last the sail became visible over the horizon, twinkling in the constant sunlight of the blessed lands. Achilles may not have breathed as he watched it approach – it did not matter, he did not need too. Hermes ship had never seemed so slow. Perhaps the god of mischief plays one final trick on me he seethed, the ever present anger within him surging for a moment.

But no, the ship was drawing closer, at last he could make out two figures upon the deck, one pressed against the railing. Achilles felt his heart bloom, and with surge of victory he had not felt since his days in Troy, let out a war cry that was loud enough to reach the land of the living. Patroclus took up the call, and from around them, others appeared. Phoenix, Nestor, Odysseus, all running down from their homes to the cliffs – all young once more, each expectant.

"Achilles," he heard her call at last, her voice like the music of the Muses. Achilles eyes feasted upon the blue of her chiton, the familiar honey colored curls. He watched as Hermes took her in his arms, his winged sandals lifting the pair off the deck and up towards where the crowd was gathered.

Achilles could feel Patroclus' fingers digging further into his shoulder, the air that swirled in his lungs, the clench of his muscles as he willed himself not to jump off the edge and down towards her. At long last the pair landed, just a short way down the cliff from the gathered congregation. Even from this distance Achilles could see her smile, see that she never pulled her eyes away from him for a moment. Achilles had not been the fleet footed warrior for nothing, and the paces between them fell away until at last, long last, she was in his arms.

He could feel her tears, her breath, the warmth of her skin, the softness of her lips, desperate to soak in every inch of her, to melt his figure into hers so that they might never be separated again. There was a roaring in his ears and pounding in his chest, an elation more real and more unfathomable than anything he had experienced before. She called is name again and again, and he hers. Achilles. Adara. Achilles. Adara. Tumbling down into the grass, they laughed and cried and allowed the sun to bake away their tears, never once pulling their eyes away from one another's. No one approached, not even Patroclus, who gave Achilles this moment. He could share her later, but for now he had waited too long to think of any other. He had never been selfless when it came to her. And as they lay together in the grass, they said no words. They would speak later on – there was an eternity for that.