He had expected it, the moment the grief-wrung, furious voice had first cried out from beyond the city walls. He had expected it as he donned his armour and kissed his wife and son farewell. He had expected it, yet death had not come easily to Hector, Prince of Troy.
Violent and bloody, his end had been, wrought upon him by Achilles in vengeance for the death of Patroclus and, it seemed, that it was not to be a swift, nor peaceful path towards the afterlife.
Through the gloom, his footfalls rang back to him a thousand times louder, the chill upon the air misting his unneeded breath before him. Where he was going, he did not know, but his feet carried him there, away from them; from memories; from life.
Behind him daylight was fading to shadow and, the more the Prince glanced back, the less clearly he saw. The walls of his city faded from his vision, shadow and murk surrounding him as he walked blindly onwards.
How long he walked, he knew not, only believing that Achilles had kept his defiant words, spoken before their fateful battle. Had his body been destroyed, he knew this endless night would be the place where he remained for all eternity, unseeing and alone.
Strange then, he mused, as he wandered, that he was no longer troubled by guilt nor pain. Nothing tormented his soul, but the tempered grief and longing to hold his wife and child once more, to have their scents fill his nostrils, to feel their warmth in the perpetual cold now surrounding him.
His sandals moved on, constantly, soundless and tireless upon unseen stone, in depthless darkness. His arms wrapped about him, he barely wearied, though he took rest, sitting for a time, in the midst of nothing, his mind lingering upon his father; his brother; his beloved city.
The change was barely noticeable, so subtle and soft, like the flickering of a new kindled flame, slowly building to a glorious blaze and, only when he lifted his head, did he see a figure of an old man before him. Dark, shrewd eyes, near invisible in the black, glittered at him, a bony hand unfurling.
"I have nothing..." he heard himself say.
The same hand remained uncurled before him and he opened both hands to reveal that he was unable to pay Charon for passage across the Acheron, wondering briefly if all souls wandered as long as he had before the ferryman sought them and if he would wander again.
Those Ancient fingers scraped upon his palms, the Prince looking down in wonder as two gold pieces were drawn from his grasp and the old figure stepped aside, revealing a dark river and shadowy vessel.
"Your passage is paid in full. You may sit," a voice as hollow as the earth spoke in a rasping whisper. "Do not look back."
Without question, Hector moved forth, setting himself within the belly of the dark boat, raising one hand to finger a pendant about his throat, forcing himself to look only ahead, lest he found himself lost once more in shadow.
The hissing strokes of Charon's oars near deafened him after so long steeped in silence and he closed his eyes, arms wrapped about his body, closing his mind to the thoughts of ones he was leaving behind.
There was no way back and what could he do if not wait for them upon the other side of the river? Though it grieved him to think upon it, he knew they would join him there one day and he could hold them once more.
The dull rocking of the boat, the wheezing of Charon's breath and the steep silence beyond seemed to continue forever, the Prince's fingers biting into his bare arms as the struggle to keep from looking back at the darkness behind grew ever stronger.
Strange that, in a world where time meant nothing, it seemed to take an eternity to reach anywhere.
"Brother!"
Dark eyes opened, startled at a voice so merry, finding clear, bright and familiar eyes dancing down upon him from a torch-lit, pillared dock. A lean young hand was offered to him and he found himself pulled from the boat onto firm land.
"I know your face," Hector said uncertainly, an image flickering upon his mind; a blade driven deep into a young throat, blood - hot and dark - staining his blade, and the quiet, desperate crimson-flecked gasps staining a face growing paler by the morning light. "I know you..."
The boy, fair-haired and yet smiling, nodded. "Only for a brief time, you knew me," he said, grasping Hector's hand and pulling him towards a grand doorway, from which light and music rang merrily. "Come! They await us!"
"Who?" Hector knew, before the word even emerged from his lips, who and his heart leapt as a thousand familiar face turned in boisterous cheer as he entered a grand, stately hall, far more radiant than anything he had seen before.
Awe writ upon his features, Hector found himself greeted by comrades fallen, friends from his childhood and those who had been, but briefly, his enemies under the hands of Agamemnon.
"Is this the fate for all?" he asked finally, amazed at the joyous nature of the halls. "Will everyone come to this place?"
The boy, the one slain by his own hands, shook his head. "This is for our glory," he said, his eyes aglow by the light of the torches. "When it is over, we shall pass into eternity, but for now, we must wait but a short time."
Hector turned to regard the boy. "For what?"
Once more, the boy smiled. "For those who have yet to join us," he said and he glanced back through the portal, towards the harbour, where Charon - even now - was fading into the distance, longing in his eyes. "For him."
"Achilles?"
The boy nodded, then laughed. "And then, we can celebrate our immortality! We will be remembered and then..." A wistful light passed in his eyes. "And then, we shall have eternity."
Hector nodded, following the boy's gaze to the portal. "Eternity," he whispered.
Yes, he would wait that and longer for those he held dear. All of them.