A Flame That Never Dies
They come with the dawn, chariot wheels rumbling over the stones of the plain, splashing through the waters of the River Scamander. The sound is like thunder, low and ominous. The people of the small town cower in fear, the women and children hiding under the tables, the men arming themselves with whatever they can find. Some try to flee, but none get far enough before the Greeks arrive, their swords flashing in the bright morning sunlight as they leap out of their chariots. There is silence. Then the screams begin.
Men fall like grain under a scythe, their blood pooling on the earth like puddles of rainwater. The women shriek as they are chased out into the fields, surrounded by the soldiers, the youngest and prettiest taken as war prizes back to the chariots, the others raped and left.
In the silence after the storm, a little girl sinks to the ground, her arms around her skinny legs, shaking in fear.
A flash of movement catches his eyes; quick, sudden, barely there. No-one else would have noticed it, but he is a leader, trained to spot the things that the common soldiers miss. He is Aristos Achaion, the best of the Greeks, able to do things that no other man has been able to do before him. Suspicious now, he thrusts his spear into Automedon's hands, and jumps agilely from his chariot, his bronze-and-gold armour clanking.
Taking no heed of his men, who are busy plundering the rich houses in the main square, he strides towards the corner of the tavern, drawing his dagger from its scabbard. Whoever has hidden themselves in such a dangerous and obvious place is in for a rude awakening; he has a right mind to teach them a lesson about cowardice. But as he rounds the corner, he stops dead.
A small child, a tiny girl, barely old enough to be without her mother, is hunched against the stone wall, tears streaking down her grimy face from behind closed eyes. Her bony arms are wrapped around her legs, which are concealed by a skirt made of dirty sacking. She makes a pitiful sight, pitiful enough to melt the hardest heart, and Achilles is suddenly reminded of another child, lonely and scrawny, sitting alone against a wall in a storeroom. A child that first became his best friend, and later, the love of his life. A child that grew into the man whom Achilles cannot live without.
The waif opens her eyes, staring at him for a second, before curling in on herself even further, trying to protect herself. "What is your name?" the words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them.
She doesn't reply, just sits and stares at him; her muddy blue eyes shine with fear. Muddy blue eyes that are the exact colour and shape of Patroclus' – Patroclus, the other child, from years ago. It's been so long since he's seen a child, so long since he's seen something so pure and innocent…Patroclus looked like that too he remembers suddenly. So scared, like I was going beat him for not being with the other boys.
He feels something stir inside of him, and crouches down in front of her, his armour clanking and his purple cloak trailing on the ground. "I won't hurt you," he says, striving to make his voice sound gentler, less fierce.
She stares at him for a few seconds more, then in a barely-there voice whispers, "I'm called Charis."
"Charis." He removes his helmet, shakes out his bright golden hair. "Where is your mother?"
"Don't 'ave one," she mumbles, looking down at her knees. He can see the soft sweep of her fair lashes against her weather beaten skin.
"Who looks after you, then, if you have no mother?" he asks, knowing with a sinking feeling that they have most likely been killed in the raid this morning.
"Don't make me go t' them," her eyes widen in panic and fear – evidently her guardians were less than kind to her. "Please, lord, I'll do anythin, anythin at all, jus' please don't make me!" His pity for the little ragamuffin grows, and he stands up again, making an instantaneous decision.
"Come on, then," he says. When she doesn't move, he sighs. "If you don't have anyone to look after you, then you'll come back to the camp with me." For an instant, he wonders how he's going to defend his actions to his fellow kings; they will not want a child running around the camp, getting into trouble. Agamemnon especially. But he is Aristos Achaion, and they will not dare to defy him if they want to keep him in their fragile alliance.
"You ent goin t'kill me?" she asks, her thin little voice trembling. "Cause that's what I seen the other men doin, see, and I seen Sapha and Eugenia die, and even though I don't like them, I didn't want t'see them be killed."
"No one is going to kill you, on my honour," Achilles holds out his hand as the child stands, smiling slightly as she takes it, reassured by his words. His smile grows as he wonders what Patroclus will say when he realises that this little girl is going to join their family.
A/N Although this is under The Iliad, I am actually using The Song of Achilles for my headcanon, (by Madeline Miller) which is technically based on the Iliad, so...
Disclaimer: I am neither old nor dead, so I cannot be Virgil. Nor am I totally and amazingly brilliant like Madeline Miller, so I can't be her either. Anyway, none of the canon characters belong to me, but Charis does, and if you steal her I will be angry! :)
Thank you for reading! And also a gigantic thank you to my amazing beta...give it up for ChaosInHerWake! Thank you so much! :)