He saw Hector, that night. Once again, he stood upon the river bank, and opposite him, on the other side of the dark running river, they waited, all of them. The men whose blood he had spilled, whose eyes he had closed, whose lives he had ended, all waiting, calling to him, welcoming him into the world which had become theirs. There was no anger in their eyes, as there never had been, no fury, no vengeance. But they cried out, in one voice, in that one voice that always haunted him during his days, "Welcome, brother." And he could not reply. They called to him, still bleeding, still bearing the marks of their last struggle, covered in wounds -- proof of their great battles, their pain, the violent death they each had suffered. All of them, united against him, and yet with him, sharing with him the pain of a killer. Each night, he saw them, and each night there were more of them, hundreds and thousands, upon the bank of Styx. Suddenly,
the crowd of men parted, shifted. And he saw Hector. He stood, in the midst of them all, stood in silence. He didn't call, didn't speak, he merely stood and gazed into his eyes, free of wounds, exactly as he had been when he had come out of the opening gates of Troy. But his eyes, his burning black eyes, held peace. The calling faded, the cries died away in their ears. They met each other's gaze for an eternity, silent, watchful, both enemies, but enemies no more. Eyes black as night meeting those as blue as the waters between them. And then the form of Hector flickered, and was gone. He stood alone, still feeling Hector's gaze upon his own. Then his eyes moved downward, to the swift waters of Styx. They rose, menacing, and shielded the bank before him from his eyes, along with the thousands standing upon it. Only their words remained, echoing in his mind, over and over again... "Brother..." And he awoke, alone inside his tent. It was dawn.