Introduction / Warnings / Disclaimer:

This story contains only vaguely implied references to sexual activity. Sorry!

Characters: Achilles is Gackt (Saturo), Patroklus is You of GacktJob. The reader's challenge is to figure out which character is which in each of the reincarnation scenarios.

Plot: If you have not read The Iliad or are not familiar with ancient Greek literature and mythology much of this story will go over your head. If you have not read The Iliad, I recommend Lattimore's translation. References are made to actual historical events and settings- don't bug me for details, use your favorite search engine. References are made to Gackt Camui's production and performance videos.

Please contact me first if you would like to link to this story. I will probably allow you to do that. You may not copy this story or any portion of it without my consent, given in my legal name. I do not have any association with any of the real persons, living or dead.

RETURNER

Cassandra sulked. "I understand why you're here, but why am I here?"

The entity she addressed had never considered the grievances of women, and he ignored her now, gripped by bitterness. This place is not the punishment, he thought, this place is just a place- it's the separation that tortures me. All I did that was needlessly cruel— the man I slew who begged for his life, the twelve sacrifices— I did after Patroklos was taken from me. He searched again, as bodiless beings search in a place without dimensions, while shades that recognized him cringed or fled at his approach.

"Pour blood for me again, Odysseus," he prayed, "let me come back, even for an instant, to see if he has returned to your world. He's nowhere on this side."

Cassandra felt like twisting the knife, so she said, "Maybe your friend isn't anywhere- he could just be windblown ash."

Then he was at the crossing point, directing the full force of his rage at the beast that blocked his way. The monster only gazed at him, its heads on its paws, with less than animal stupidity and more than human contempt.

ΩΩΩ

The lanky, full-lipped girl swayed through the narrow streets with a basket on her hip, her gaze darting back and forth between the offal on the cobblestones and the wares displayed beneath the shop awnings. She slowed her pace so she could take as long as possible to pass the stall where daggers and lance heads glittered as they swung overhead. The men in her Gypsy tribe made knives, but nothing of this quality. Sharp, shiny things, she thought, they always get me into trouble, but I can't resist them.

An apprentice stepped out of the dim workroom, holding something out to her. "Take this," he said. She stood warily, silently, thinking his voice was too soft and his face too gentle for one who forged blades.

"You'd better start wearing this. People talk about you. You don't go to church, do you? And stop singing, unless you sing hymns."

She snatched the small cross, cast of some impure metal, from his hand and bolted, slipping the cord over her head as she ran.

ΩΩΩ

The Englishman climbed into the coach - little better than a covered farm wagon, really. He hated to leave his lodgings in Oslo, but his financial backers demanded that he should personally insure the quality and quantity of the cod to be shipped from Drammen, and so to Drammen he went. He was not alone in the coach. An old woman peered at him between her high sable neck-wrap and a cap lined with the same fur. The ornaments on her cloak were large enough to assure him that she was wealthy, and so he introduced himself in Danish. For all he knew, she might be the mother of one of his business associates.

"Before we reach town," she said, "I should like to stop at the churchyard, to visit my Sister's grave. It is a long time since I went there."

"Of course, Madam, I am sorry to hear of your loss."

"Ah," she said, leaning back and looking out at the austere landscape, dusted with early snow, "It is a long time ago, when we were girls, when we lived on our parents' farm. Our Father had a quarrel with another farmer; it seemed it would last forever."

Oh, God help me, the Englishman thought as he sucked in his breath, here we go with some hideous tale of the feuds of these barbaric people.

The old dame paused and squinted at him. He smiled gravely and nodded as though he actually wished her to go on. " Finally it was decided that the best way to stop this quarrel was for me to marry the farmer's son. He was all right, but I couldn't stand his mother and sister- the idea of being shut up in the farmhouse with them all winter was unbearable. The closer it came to my wedding day, the more stubborn I became. I sat in my bed and wouldn't talk to anyone. My Sister, she had no wish to marry. She was happy just to weave and tell troll stories to the other children. Pictures of horses and knights, she always made. And flowers. I would love to take a rose to her grave, but where is there a rose? Not in a hundred leagues."

The Englishman coughed. She took a deep breath, as though she had just recalled that she had a captive audience, and drove on. "My Father rode off, my Sister with him, to meet the farmer and his son." Here the Englishman tried to entertain himself by envisioning an elegant Amazon, but in vain. He had seen too many of the local equestriennes, large stocky women jouncing along on short stocky ponies. "And when they came back, she was crying. She put on the wedding dress that was made for me, the whole front was embroidered with red and gold. Even my beautiful bride-crown. And so she went to the church and married the farmer's son. She went to live with those people and I saw her again very few times. I don't know how it was between her and her husband and his family, but I could see she wasn't happy. She did this for me, but I don't understand why. She had a baby, stillborn. She herself died just a few days later. Fever."

"I'm sorry," he said. How could one possibly comment on such a banal narrative? Mercifully, the old woman was silent during the last hour of the ride. When they drew up beside the small, ancient church, he got out to help her step down. The snow was shallow in the walled churchyard, and the woman walked slowly toward a monument against the rear wall. He followed, in case she might stumble – or need gentle reminding that the coach must shortly proceed to Drammen. From a respectful distance, he watched her sallow hand, heavy with rings, extend from her deep fur cuff to caress the snow out of the inscription.

Gunhild Kristoffersdatter

MDXL - MDLX

ΩΩΩ

"I think the three heads symbolize the past, present, and future," said Cassandra.

How about ugly, vicious, and shut-the-hell-up. The world kills you, every time, because you can't keep your mouth shut, and you come back here, where I want to kill you. A rational approach was futile. Maundering about time was futile. Was he getting it right, getting it wrong, progressing or sliding back … it, whatever it was, was getting him. Had him, like a bug turning on a pin. Again and again he'd come so close to the one he needed to be with, only to be dragged away. Was it sin or circumstance that kept them apart? Was there a reality behind either concept, or were they just ideas humans created to give existence meaning? Could a being exist for over a millennium and still be immature? Hell had no answers.

In the world, his story was better known than ever, even to commoners; people were naming their sons after him. He hated being born more than ever, but he was powerless to resist the summons of either hope or despair.

ΩΩΩ

Ulrich trudged beside the supply wagon, lowering his head to keep the swirling snow out of his eyes. There was no need to look where he was going, anyway. There was only this narrow road through the dense forest, and the Austrians had been walking in slush all morning, moving south. The troops would take up positions in the fields near the small town of Hohenlinden, encircling the French, and he would bring up his wagon with jugs of water and odds and ends of gear. He was not old enough to be entrusted with powder and shot. He looked at the pale sun in the white sky and judged it was between eight and nine o'clock. And now the snow turned to wet sleet. Trees began to creak under the accumulating weight, and suddenly a huge mass of snow slid off overhanging branches and landed on the back of the horses' necks. They neighed shrilly, and in spite of Ulrich's attempt to steady them, pulled the wagon sharply to the left, where a wheel smacked into a tree. The supply master rode back to survey the situation, judged the damage to be minimal, and told Ulrich to catch up. Troops continued to silently slog past them.

There was an explosion somewhere ahead of them. The supply master turned and grinned at the boy, "Na ja, this is it, then." There was another concussion and Ulrich saw the supply master's face grow white. Simultaneously they realized that there had been no time for the Austrian cannons to be deployed. Now the foot soldiers were running past them, their officers driving them forward. Ulrich went forward too, but something bit into him and stiffened his legs. The cold, most likely. Abruptly the forward rush of troops was overwhelmed by a broken wave of troops in full retreat. A gun crew descended upon his wagon, cut the horses out of their traces, and fled, riding bareback. Others were scattering into the woods or running back the way they had come, jamming the road with panicked horses, trampling the wounded. Ulrich grabbed a bag of bread he had stowed in the wagon and ran into the woods. There was no point in trying to get back to last night's campsite, where the French would surely take him prisoner.

He had no idea how long he had been running, and even when he could see the sky through the branches, he couldn't get his bearings. One of the innumerable small streams lay ahead of him, and there appeared to be a few yards of clear space on its banks. Gasping, he lurched out of the trees, into calm sunlight. Birds twittered.

A horse nickered.

Ulrich spun around to see the horseman in shade, not twenty feet away. The hussar's eyes were black slashes beneath his shako brim, and his mouth was a straight line between the small braids that hung over his cheekbones. There was absolutely no point in running. Ulrich stood at the edge of the half-frozen stream as the Frenchman rode slowly forward, holding the reins in his right hand. He circled Ulrich counterclockwise, expressionless, and the boy tried not to look at the smeared saber or the dark, sodden sleeve. He realized he was shaking and close to fainting when the rider raised his saber… to point.

"St. Cristoph is that way. Travel at night, find a loft or a cellar. Don't stop running until you get to Vienna."

Although the hussar had spoken in French, it was obvious the boy had understood him, taking off like a greased piglet. As he lingered in the clearing it began to snow yet again, fat goose-down flakes this time. He sheathed the saber and tipped his head back, letting the snow fall on his face, on his outstretched bloody hand.

ΩΩΩ

Lieutenant Kinjo spent his scant off-duty time writing a note to his girlfriend. He sighed, recalling how the steam in her parents' noodle shop in Nagasaki fogged up her thick glasses. She had "daikon legs," too, but that could stay their little secret as long as she continued to wear kimonos. When his shipmates bragged about their conquests he longed to tell them how skilled his "little bat" was at finding things in the dark. However, that kind of smutty chatter was not appropriate for the impeccable young officer known as "Mr. Precision." He signed with a flourish and a goofy doodle and gazed around the tiny cabin. The noodle shop was not much bigger, but he would gladly spend the rest of his days there as the prize son-in-law, doing accounts in an old yukata. He would give his all to help relieve the garrison on Okinawa, but he suspected it was too late for them. Doubt and indifference were his dark secrets, with him since his first days of training; no matter how many enthusiastic vows and slogans he uttered, somehow he had never felt this was his war.

They were under attack. He buttoned his jacket as he raced to his battle station. He was a born leader; he would be glorious. They were hit- a bomb came shearing through the decks. Smoke was starting to collect in the passageway, and as he stepped through a bulkhead he slipped and fell in…sugar. Tens of kilos of flour, rice and sugar, blown out of the ship's stores, formed smoking drifts in the narrow hall. A secondary explosion ignited cooking oil, kerosene. Tiny flames leapt through the dusty air.

The sailors of the Yahagi fought like demons; they were glorious. However, Kinjo had been dead for over an hour before the cruiser tipped, allowing his caramelized body to slide through the rent in the hull like scraps off a cutting board.

ΩΩΩ

Cassandra was talking again, and this time the living were actually listening. She'd just published a book about dying, describing the process as traveling through a tunnel of light. From his corner of Hades, he scoffed, "I'd say it's more like being flushed down a toilet." The gate-beast let out a loud snort, in which he detected a note of amusement. "Fuck," he thought, "I've been back here so many times it's starting to like me."

ΩΩΩ

You watched his difficult, talented friend pace back and forth on the other side of the driftwood bonfire. "Why are we here, Saturo? What did you want to see me about that we couldn't discuss in a nice warm café? If it's about starting your own band, I think that's a great …"

"No. I wanted to apologize to you. For being so stubborn, For always causing you pain." Saturo lifted the lid off a small cooler with the toe of his boot. Instead of the bottle of beer the violinist expected, Saturo lifted out a bottle of wine, deftly opened it, offered him a brimming cup. "It's from Santorini," he said.

You felt, as he had so often, that he was supposed to say something here, he was supposed to understand something more than the literal sense of the words. Never taking his eyes off his friend, he sipped cautiously. "It's good."

Saturo looked as if he were about to explode with frustration. He took a step closer to the fire. "I want you to remember." He lifted a hank of his long hair, bleached to dark honey. "Don't you remember when my hair was this color? When my eyes were this color?" You tried to see past the blue contacts, to see if his friend had completely cracked this time. He lifted his hands in confusion, and Saturo lunged at him, grabbing his face and forcing You to hang on to Saturo's shoulders to keep himself from falling back in the sand. "I need you to remember! You have to, together we can make it stop!" A wind off the ocean lifted his hair into a halo of whips.

"OK, all right..." Infinitely slowly, You pulled away from the firelit Medusa, walking backwards until he felt the beach grass at the back of his knees. Then he turned and walked toward their bikes. He didn't turn around when he heard the choking and cursing, nor when he heard the knife blade flick out. He loved the man, no matter how many times he left and came back, but he wouldn't be drawn into his madness. His key was already in the ignition when the terrible, acrid smell reached him. You turned, looked down the beach, and saw Satoru hacking off thick locks of his hair, tossing them in the fire. He slumped forward over the bike, dizzy, sick. I remember. He closed his eyes and still saw the leaping sparks, as if he were looking down at the pyre, down at the warrior kneeling beside the blood-dark sea. Together- no obstacles- finally. All you've done for me…I understand now. Please tell me you've forgiven yourself…

You slowly became aware that he was lying on his side, his face wet, his fingers digging into the sand. Boots scuffed beside him, and then Saturo bent down to lift the bike off his leg, his gentle smile framed by his butchered hair, kouros and Kannon at once.

"Let's make them talk about us for another three thousand years. Let's not waste a minute."

ΩΩΩ

The junior executive tried and failed to conceal his excitement as his boss hove into the office, threw down his briefcase, and poured himself a whisky. After long minutes of feigned nonchalance, the boss took pity on his junior. "All the contracts are signed." The superstar's cooperation had been expensive, but his music and his image would trigger an avalanche of profit. "What a trial. That guy is so hard to deal with."

"Oh, he's a tough negotiator?"

"It's hard to tell, his people handle the money part. But he was a nut about details once he agreed. And at first I couldn't tell if he even liked the game concept. We had to pitch it in a room that was half dark, because that's the way he likes it, and he just sat there, staring into space."

Feeling the boldness conferred by easy cash, the junior laughed, "I'll bet he didn't know what you were talking about! I mean, he never had time for much formal education, did he? This was probably the first time he ever heard of Cerberus!"

ΩΩΩ