Summary: The reflections of Eudorus on Achilles as Patroclus dies. Companion story to Torilei's fic "Only the Beginning." Please read her story first, as they really do fit together best when viewed in that order. Also, there is NO slash intended in this fanfic. It's all brotherly love. Please enjoy, and feel free to review!
Disclaimer: I own nothing from "Troy" or the Iliad. I also owe credit for these companion stories to Tori who came up with the idea and helped us get it all together. Thanks so much, chica-chee!!
Author's Note: Ok, just a fun little note before we get going here. Tori mentioned how we agonized over what two characters to do and who should do which one. I mean, it really took us a while, lol! But once we had decided on Odysseus and Eudorus, it occurred to me that the title of our first one about Odysseus, "Only the Beginning," begins with the same letter as Odysseus' name. And that in our second story about Eudorus, "This is the End," the last word begins with the same letter as Eudorus' name. Is that cool, or what? And we didn't even realize it until everything had already been determined. Then, Tori in all her genius also realized that our two focal characters, Odysseus and Eudorus, both come together over the body of Patroclus at the end of that scene in the movie. What a perfect way to end it, huh? Thanks for catching that, Tori, it was brilliant!! So I sincerely hope you all enjoy our two complimentary fanfics, and we'll talk to you guys later!
This is the End
Cold bronze slices through tender flesh, and a shower of hot blood from the lacerated throat sprays our way. I see others avert their eyes from the gruesome sight, King Odysseus of Ithaca among them. But I cannot tear my eyes away. My lord is falling – falling so slowly, as if Time itself had stopped to watch this legend come crashing to the dust.
The elated cheers of the Trojan soldiers are muted in my ears as I watch this warrior fall. Impossible! Achilles was a match for the gods themselves. He had no fear in fighting Hector, nor had I any fear for him. Yet here he lies defeated upon the scorching sands of Troy while Prince Hector stands tall above him, reveling in his victory. I cannot believe it.
Hector kneels unexpectedly beside his vanquished foe, and I brace myself against the atrocities that might be enacted against my lord's matchless body. He reaches for the gleaming helmet now dulled by dust, I presume to claim it as his own. But when the helmet is removed, the prince's jubilant face suddenly transforms into a mask of horror, and I see why. My own expression mirrors his, and I feel winded, as though I have been struck in the chest with one of the oars that brought us to this cursed place.
It is not Achilles. I should have known. I have known my lord for so many years that I can see his flawless fighting even in my dreams. There is only one who could have so deceived me, and he now lies prostrate in the dust, in agony – agony that cannot be realized in the screams that seek naturally to be unleashed. The flow of blood has smothered them into silence, and all Patroclus can do amidst the misery of his death throes is moan. Somehow that is worse even than the screams, and suddenly I long to hear them. Anything but this mute suffering…
The boy is dying as I watch him, helpless, but I cannot bear to meet his pained, imploring stare. Oh gods, be merciful and end his torment! Please – let this child die!
He is choking, slowly drowning to death in his own slick blood. I am sure the taste of it is bitter in his mouth, and I can only pray as he gasps away his life that he knows in his final moments how, to Achilles, his blood is the sweetest substance in the world – far sweeter even than honey, the nectar of deities.
For honey satisfies only man's palate and his stomach, but your blood, sweet Patroclus, flowing strong within your veins, sustains the ravenous heart of the greatest warrior in the world. And how that heart will ache when he hears that you have left him in this cruel and heartless world – a world of darkness to which he will all too soon succumb without the light of your presence to draw him back from the abyss.
You are his cousin – you are his blood. And as your priceless lifeblood spills across the sand, so does your noble kinsman's, as surely as though it were his own throat that has been slit. He has loved you more than all else in this world, but this is the end of your life.
A bloodied bronze blade rises and falls once more, yet I do not see the blow strike home, nor do I hear the desperate cry of him who dealt it. I see only this same blade twisting within the broken heart of my lord when he learns that the boy he loved is dead. I hear only his anguished weeping when he knows that he is alone. And now his own death is imminent.
I somehow remain silent as the tears fall unheeded down my cheeks, yet my heart is groaning out its sorrow to the Olympians on high. The men are parting ways now, after a brisk command from Odysseus that scarcely reaches my ears. The Greeks return to their ships, and the Trojans to their city. But not me. I remain and slowly approach the body as though in a daze. It all feels so unreal, almost as if I were disembodied and watching myself from a distance.
Despite the blood running from Patroclus' mouth and mangled throat, the stony look of death has not yet settled over his features, for there still seems to be a youthful glow about him, as indeed there always was while he still breathed. He is so young! Too young.
I assume Hector's former place beside the boy, the grains of golden sand beneath my knees more abrasive than I can ever remember. The blue eyes are still open, as scared and tortured as when they saw their last. I close them myself, careful not to stain my fingers in the precious crimson liquid, for I fear it may never be washed away. I would see it upon my skin for the rest of my days, haunting me as though this tragedy had been my doing. I should have known – should have stopped him before it was too late. And now it is too late for us all. The end is near.
I hear someone join me on the ground and know without even looking that it is Odysseus. He knew the boy's parents well, as he also knows Achilles. Who else would be here beside me – beside Patroclus – but him?
"We were going to sail home today," I tell him stoically, struggling to keep my voice level for fear that, if I betray any emotion whatsoever, I will not be able to contain myself. I have been no stranger to death in my time, but this is different. If I let myself think on it too long, I will break. Just like Achilles will break when he hears the news, as surely as the sun will set this night.
"I don't think anyone's sailing home now," Odysseus replies grimly, and I can hear in his subdued tone that he, too, realizes how far the ripples of this sad event will reach across the waters of all our lives.
I can only nod in response as I gently caress the boy's blonde hair, now grimy with sweat and dust. The ends are drenched in his blood, but this I try to ignore. Perhaps if we give no acknowledgement to what has transpired, Odysseus and I can stay here alone with the boy a moment, impervious to Time and the inevitable decay it brings. But change must always come, for good or ill. And truly this must be for ill.
My heart is heavy. Not only with sorrow now, but fear – fear such as I have never known before, even in all the battles I have fought beside my lord. For Patroclus is dead, and I must tell Achilles.
This is the end of the Myrmidons, for it is the end of Achilles. He knows that if he stays here, he will die. His goddess mother has foreseen it, and he has deigned to share this intimate knowledge with me. He has been tempted to return home ever since we arrived, to cast aside his blood-lust and insatiable thirst for immortal glory. But this is the end of temptation. His boy is dead, and there will be no going home now.
Oh, my godlike Lord Achilles – this is the end for you.