Finish what you have begun.
Hector remembered the command as he surveyed the Greek camp in the early gray hours of the dawn. It was a command he had given himself when he was young and it had served him well all his life. Now, he hoped, it would serve him in overcoming the Greeks. During the night his army had rolled great balls of hay down the sand dune to the shore where the Greeks camped, lit the balls on fire, and then watched silently as mayhem broke out. After a sleepless night of confusion, the Greeks would be no match for his army. Ready for the battle, he banged his spear against his shield and instantly the rest of his army did the same, all of them following his footsteps down to the beach. Finish what you have begun.
Today they would finish the Greeks.
Finish what you have begun.
Hector watched as suddenly the massed army facing them began cheering, taking up the cry that haunted his dreams. He voiced the word as though it was a bitter taste in his mouth: "Achilles." So Achilles had not departed fully from the battle. Hector was glad. The battle had new meaning for him now, new purpose. He had met Achilles at the temple of Apollo just after the great warrior had taken the beach. He had left him because he was overpowered and Achilles refused to fight. Now he was ready to end it. Spurring his men to take courage, he lifted his spear and roared, challenging Achilles to face him. Finish what you have begun.
Today he would finish Achilles.
Finish what you have begun.
Suddenly, time paused from where it turned on its axis and Hector stared at the gaping slash that crossed his enemy's throat. The warrior fell back, arms flung wide, seeming suspended in midair before his back curved in a graceful arc and he fell to the ground. Hector never forgot the way the boy fell, like an ocean wave or the sun rising and setting, brilliant and strong one moment, then curving down into the dust. He knelt down, intending to take the helmet off Achilles' head and instead removed it from the head of a boy. Sickening grief clenched his gut and he had to look away from the boy's pleading, tear-filled eyes only to be greeted by the silent stares of the two armies. His commander gave a war cry of victory and Hector nearly struck him down to the sand beside the boy. This, he surveyed the dying boy, this was not victory. The boy's hair, Patroclus he learned later was his name, was sticky with blood and the same blood dripped down into the inside of Achilles' armor—armor that, now he could see, was too large. The thick, guttural sounds the boy was making sounded like pleas that could not be put into words. Hector lifted his sword and tried not to stare at the blood that coated its blade. That same blood was running, warm and heavy, from Patroclus' throat and mouth, running with his tears and the sand in the hourglass of his life. He lifted the sword. Finish what you have begun.
Today he would finish himself. With one swipe of the sword, he already had.