Summary: Achilles' heel is not his only weakness. A crossover between Troy and Second Age Middle Earth. Focal characters are Patroclus, Achilles and Gil-galad, but it also includes many others from the movie.

Disclaimer: I don't own Troy and I certainly don't anything related to Middle Earth - it's just way out of my league.

Author's Note: Wow, everybody, this is my first attempt at a crossover, so "cross" your fingers and wish me luck! I've had the idea for this story for a while, and I'm finally starting to actually write it. I have every intention of finishing it, but I don't know how long it might take. I hate to leave my readers hanging, and I promise I'll do the best I can. Kudos to Whilom and Torilei for their patience and support in this work - especially Whilom, who was gracious enough to read my rather long summary of the whole thing!

Details (Please Read): It is always crucial for an author and his or her readers to be on the same page, but in the case of this story, I feel it is especially important. Since this is a crossover, I hope here to clarify some of the finer details of how this is all going to work. Those of you who have read The Lord of the Rings, or better yet The Silmarillion, will be at a definite advantage reading this fic; but I'm hoping to write it in such a way that even if you aren't too familiar with Tolkien's works, you can still follow the story.

This takes place during the Second Age of Middle Earth and therefore long before the events of LOTR, which occurred at the very end of the Third Age. For those who may not be familiar with the history, Gil-galad is the last High King of the Elves who fought in the Last Alliance along with Elendil and Isildur – think of the big battle during the prologue of the Fellowship movie. Like Elendil, he was slain in combat with Sauron, and their deaths marked the end of the Second Age.

The basic premise in this story is that Greece and the city of Troy are both located in Middle Earth. If you will please reference a map of Middle Earth kindly provided for us by Prof. Tolkien, you will see that Gil-galad's rule was primarily focused in Lindon, very close to the Shire. But in this account, Greece and Troy are even further south than Minas Tirith. So much so, in fact, that they are off Tolkien's map entirely, and neither have had much interaction with the other peoples of their world. But the ocean there is the very same Sundering Sea that borders all of Westernmost Middle Earth. Hence, Greece and Troy are just two more of the already varied cultures of Middle Earth. They are the same as we know and love them in the movie, and likewise, the Elves have not changed at all from the books' or movies' portrayal.

So with that said, I realize ahead of time that all the little details may not add up perfectly, but I hope that you can all allow me some room for human error and remember that my main goal here is the development of some truly amazing characters. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

"Achilles! Achilles! Achilles!"

From where he stood near the prow of the ship, Patroclus could hear the impassioned cries of Greek soldiers as they cheered their hero on in battle. He heard, but he did not join them. It was not fair! He should be out there with Achilles right now, fighting side-by-side with his cousin to take the indomitable Trojan beach. But no. Instead he stood here on the ship, watching the conflict from a safe distance.

Safe. How he despised the word! True, he understood and even appreciated his elder cousin's concern for him. It was touching, really, to know that the most feared warrior in the world could be hindered by worry for him, a boy of little consequence and no exceptional talent, save what he had learned from Achilles himself. And in return, Patroclus loved his cousin dearly, idolizing him as his greatest hero.

All the same, it was excruciating to sit back and watch while such great events unfolded before his eyes. He was ready to fight! He may have yet been a bit slender at only seventeen, but he had a strong build and was taller than most men, including his cousin. And most importantly, Achilles himself had trained him, teaching him everything he knew until the two of them nearly mirrored one another when they sparred.

Patroclus roused himself from his thoughts and turned his attention to the commotion around him. Men leapt into the frothy ocean waters as more ships arrived at the beach, hauling the vessels further ashore with ropes. Tents already dotted the shoreline like stubborn flies with no intention of being swatted away anytime soon.

Squinting against the glare of the sun, the boy could see dust rising from the steeds of Trojan soldiers as they made their hasty retreat back to the distant city. And then, much closer, a far more welcome sight met his eyes, coming down the beach from the direction of Apollo's temple: Achilles.

A wide grin spread across Patroclus' face, despite his disappointment at not having been allowed to fight, and he jumped easily from the ship to head toward his cousin. Though he had many times seen Achilles' prowess in warfare firsthand, the young Greek still found himself overcome by a wave of relief whenever the older man returned from battle unscathed.

Achilles reached for him as they drew nearer, and Patroclus gladly walked into a quick embrace, not at all minding the sweaty, blood-stained arm that was slung across his shoulders as they walked along. Eudorus soon joined them.

"My lord," he called, falling into step on Achilles' opposite side. "I have something to show you."

Achilles nodded his acknowledgment and broke away as they neared his tent, disappearing within. Eudorus remained just outside the entrance, no doubt elaborating on whatever it was he had wanted Achilles to see. Patroclus could guess easily enough.

"A girl?" he inquired when Eudorus came near him again.

Achilles' second-in-command nodded an affirmative. "From the temple."

The youth only shook his head; it was of no great importance to him. Achilles could do as he liked where those matters were concerned, but he himself had little such interests. At least, not at this moment in time.

"Was there any difficulty taking the beach?" he asked, eager to both change the subject and learn more about the battle.

"None worth mentioning," Eudorus replied. "There is rarely any great difficulty whenever your cousin fights."

Patroclus grinned at that and was about to respond, when suddenly they were approached by a messenger wearing the colors of the King of Kings.

"You are a captain of the Myrmidons, are you not?" he questioned Eudorus.

"I am."

"You will tell your Lord Achilles that King Agamemnon requests his presence as the kings gather to celebrate his victory today."

Eudorus appeared thoughtful. "By 'his victory,' do you mean Achilles' victory?"

The messenger's eyes narrowed, glaring daggers at him, but Eudorus remained unperturbed. If anything, Patroclus thought his friend took a certain amount of pleasure in awaiting the other man's answer.

"You know who I mean," he snarled at last. "This victory belongs to King Agamemnon and no other."

"Yes, I've no doubt he'll make that abundantly clear. Let's just hope he doesn't give us soldiers any chance to debate him on the subject."

Finally at a loss for words, the flustered messenger hurriedly repeated his order and whirled away without once glancing behind.

Eudorus sighed and headed back to his commander's tent, sharing an amused glance with Patroclus. As much as they might loathe the sandal-licking scum that constituted the majority of Agamemnon's followers, the High King's orders were not to be dismissed lightly. And Achilles had been summoned.

Patroclus watched his cousin leave shortly thereafter, then went to help Eudorus and the other Myrmidons finish unloading the stores from their ship. And though they were kept quite busy in the time that followed, it was difficult to miss the two servants of Agamemnon who entered Achilles' tent without a word and began to forcefully drag the struggling girl back with them.

Patroclus immediately stepped forward to confront the men, for the sake of both Achilles and the girl, but a strong hand on his forearm held him back. The boy stared at Eudorus in disbelief.

"Shouldn't we stop them?" he protested, making one last attempt to free his arm from that iron grip, but the older man just shook his head. Patroclus wanted desperately to argue further, but there was something in Eudorus' pale blue eyes that said he knew better. Perhaps it would be wisest this time to trust his companion's well-earned experience. Relenting at last, the boy meekly nodded his head and relaxed his arm, which was slowly released.

"Achilles isn't going to be happy about this, is he?"

Eudorus pursed his lips, seemingly deep in thought. "You would probably know better than I; but no, he won't be. I pity the fool who would dare take away anything Achilles holds dear."

Patroclus solemnly nodded his agreement, but he said no more.

Dusk was settling over his beloved city as Prince Hector of Troy sat by his father's side in what was sure to be the first of many war councils. The ramblings of the old priests and generals around him gradually faded into a distant hum of noise as his thoughts drifted back to Tecton and the Greek who had slain him outside Apollo's temple.

A perfect throw, he mused, passing a hand over his weary eyes. Impossible…

"But are you certain he will come?"

The commanding voice of one of the city's elders broke abruptly into his reflections, and Hector snapped back to the present in time to hear his father's response.

"He will come," King Priam replied, his voice sure and firm. "Our ancestors faithfully served his father for years, long ago in the ancient lands of Dor-Lomin. He will come from the North to honor that old friendship, for his people hold such history in high regard. He will come."

There was little use arguing with such conviction, yet a ripple of discontented murmurings moved throughout the council. And Hector, in his heart of hearts, was inclined to share their skepticism. His father must have known he was right when he had said that they could not win this war alone, for Priam had immediately done what no Trojan royal before him had ever attempted. He had sent a request for military aid to an ally he'd never met, an ally whose only ties to the Trojans went back to a centuries-old friendship remembered by none still among the living. Only through faded manuscripts and ancient lore were these rumored allies known, yet Priam had asked for their assistance.

Of course, there was always hope; but they still had no way of knowing if their message had even been received, much less if the aid they sought would come. There had been no contact between these legendary people and the Trojans in many hundreds of years. History would have to be dear to them indeed if they would come this far from their homelands in the North to the aid of strangers, solely for the sake of honoring an alliance forged in another era.

Hector's gaze returned to the nearby window. It was almost dark now, the last lingering rays of the red sun looking like splashes of blood upon the distant ocean. The Trojan prince sighed. Why was it that all men seemed drawn to the Sea, to the West? It was as if something there called out to him; but compelling as it was, there was also a sense of warning – that whatever may lie beyond the western horizon was forever forbidden to him and to all mankind.

Suddenly, he was again jolted out of his reverie by a loud noise; this time it came from a soldier who had rushed into the room, nearly breathless, and was now attempting to relay his urgent message.

"Here," he gasped, sucking in air. "He's here! They've come!"

Priam was on his feet in an instant. "Where? Where are they?"

"They are approaching the gate as we speak, my King."

"Come, quickly! We will meet them there." The elderly king motioned for his advisers to follow him, and soon all were hurrying down to the main gate of the city. Hector brought up the rear of their procession; while he longed to hope that all of this was real, doubt still held a strong foothold in his mind. But all doubts vanished like smoke in the wind when he finally pushed forward to join his father, and the wide gates swung open before them.

Into the city came a host unlike any Hector had ever seen. They marched silently, not only in word, but in the manner of their movements. They seemed to glide effortlessly along the street, leaving no visible footprints in the sand behind them. Their garb was also foreign, for they were covered in clothing and armor from head to toe, despite the heat of the climate. And about their shoulders they wore cloaks of grey that shimmered as shadows in the twilight, rippling with every fluid motion.

Beautiful curved bows were in their hands, and swords lay strapped across their backs – all of them so exquisite they appeared to be fine works of art more than weaponry. Some in front carried long weapons that Hector could only assume were spears, for he had never before seen weapons of such making. And from these spears hung blue and silver banners that swayed in the gentle breeze with a gracefulness all their own.

The strangers' grey eyes shone like the very stars of heaven, and Hector found himself loath to meet those piercing gazes. Their long hair fell past their shoulders, most locks dark like midnight, some others golden as the sun. They were tall, but the one who marched at their head stood taller than the rest. A cape of royal blue hung from his shoulders, and upon his head sat a golden circlet like a crown.

When his troops stopped behind him, he kept coming, and Priam eagerly stepped forward to meet him. They stopped a few paces apart, and the Trojan king inclined his head in solemn greeting.

"Welcome to Troy – Gil-galad, son of Fingon."

Author's End Note: So, that's the start. What do you think? Feedback and ideas are always very much appreciated! Thanks!