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Chapter 42
The gods we're toying with him.
Automedon steered his immortal horses forward, racing like lightning and fury across the Trojan plains to where the Amazon women bared their swords and howled with excitement. Achilles felt the sun beating upon his god made armor, the flow of energy through his limbs, his eyes full only of Penthesilea and mind on thoughts of Patroclus as they charged.
Yet it was not to be. For one brief moment Achilles saw visions of grandeur as Penthesilea and he fought to his death, and of Patroclus' ghost welcoming him to Hades, and the next he had been thrown from his chariot. Tumbling across the sand, he saw that one of the axles had broken and a wheel was rolling away in the dirt. Ten years have I fought, and never before has my chariot failed mehe thought, raising a fist to the sky and letting loose every curse he could think of at the gods. And when he finally gained his feet, spear clutched in his hand, Achilles found that his advantage has been lost and the Amazons had charged a different point on the Greek line.
"Antilochus," Achilles shouted, his red vision searching for the figure of the young man who had also been thrown from the chariot. At last his eyes fell upon the dust covered figure of his counterpart, and with a bellow he charged past his friend, knowing the young Achaean would follow.
The Amazon women were gathered before the Athenian lines several hundred paces to the left of where Achilles had fallen, their peculiar war cries like the sounds of harpies echoing over the clamor and screams of the battle. Curse the godsAchilles thought again without a second thought for who was tending to his horses or gathering his chariot. Anger at his missed opportunity coursed through him, the corners of his sight flickering black, jolts of electricity charging through him.
Like he was wading through a stream, Achilles and Antilochus carved through the opposing lines, cutting between the Greek and Trojan soldiers as they attempted to close the distance between themselves and their newest foe. Achilles spear was ruthless, gliding through breastplates, sliding under chinstraps, poking holes in bodies like a rent in a sail. For Patroclus, for Patroclus, for Patroclus. Every attack was punctuated with the thought, his certainty that he was to be reunited with his friend growing as he churned through the two armies towards Penthesilea.
Bodies came and fell before him as if offering themselves to his glory. Achilles was detached from their moans as they crumpled at his feet, his eyes only for the woman before him, the undeniable beauty of her axe swing, the strident war cry that she loosed from deep in her chest. In awe he watched her remove the head of an unfortunate man who had stepped into her reach, as if under her spell. Here is one worthy of my death he knew, hypnotized by the snakelike dance in which she teased her opponents.
Yet for every Trojan he cut down, ten more seemed to take his place, like a many headed hydra determined to prevent him from reaching the mountaintop. From meeting Penthesilea upon the battlefield. From finding Patroclus. His rage only grew with each strike of his spear. Have I not struck down enough of these flies to deserve the spider? For ten years he had contented himself with the slaughter of helpless Trojans, of men so inferior he had long ago lost the notion of noble murder. Even Hector, best of the Trojans had proven mediocre in the end, and now I have a foe to contend with, strong enough to write my name in the heavens, and I am denied the chance to cross blows.
Beside him Antilochus was dancing as if on hot coals, using all of his ability to keep up with Achilles' relentless pursuit. The two of them were cheered on by their fellow Achaeans, the Myrmidons following in their wake, yet each step forward was hard won. Sweat poured down Achilles back, his gaze maroon in fury. He could feel his breath rattling in his lungs, his body perhaps all the more aware as he attempted to draw closer to his demise.
Above them, Apollo continued his steady tread across the sky, each passing moment sucking away the chance for Achilles' glory. He felt desperate, on edge, undone by this one day of attack. With each swipe of his arm, he again felt the axle of his chariot break, the sinking in his gut as he had flown through the air and away from his destiny. Gods help me he begged. Give me what I was promised. He did not hear the awestruck cheers of the men around him who watched him dispose of foes like they were made of ash, his mind focused solely upon the ironclad cluster of women terrorizing the Athenian forces.
And then suddenly, before Achilles was aware, the horns of retreat were blowing and the Trojan and Achaean lines separated. Around him the men fell back, grateful for another day to return to their beds, the bodies that had amassed at the center line left to fester until teams of men were sent to collect the dead in the middle of the night. The Amazonian women screamed with victory, their spears puncturing the air.
Penthesilea stood at the rear of the retreat, her eyes only for Achilles, her axe twisting in her hands. Her gold armor twinkled mockingly in the downward descent of the sun, it's hue an undeniable sign that she was his only equal. Achilles felt a hand rest heavily on his shoulder and give a slight tug.
"Tomorrow," Antilochus said, even in their short acquaintance understanding that every inch of his being was desperate to tear across the land and let her tear him limb from limb. His muscles shook, whether from exhaustion or anger he did not know. Penthesilea spat on the ground before her, and turned on her heel, moving to follow the rest of the Trojan army and leaving Achilles' head spinning and vision black. Somewhere within the recesses of his chest, his heart seemed to stop, overwhelmed by the sense that he had lost Patroclus for a second time.
"Tomorrow, my friend," Antilochus repeated, the hand on Achilles' shoulder pulling him back this time. With nothing else to do, Achilles turned, allowing himself to be led across the barren battleground towards the Greek gates where the army was now congregated.
Each step seemed to send shocks through his system, his mind uncomprehendingly blank. Where was his warriors rage? The haunting of his shadows? Instead was only the whistle of the wind and the mindless babbling of Antilochus beside him. To Achilles, he may have been speaking in Tongues.
How foolish I was, to think the gods would honor their word to mehe considered as he walked, removing his helmet and shoving it into Antilochus' unsuspecting hands. Suddenly unable to bear another's presence, he broke into a run, pulling away from the Myrmidon men and brushing mercilessly past Achaean men. He had seen his fate before him in the delicate stroke of an axe blade, could almost imagine the fate's shears closing upon his line as Penthesilea and he circled like vultures. As he moved, Achilles became overwhelmed by grief, his need for Patroclus never greater than at his moment. And yet I am denied our reunion. The gods truly were cruel.
Once within the Achaean camp he turned directly for his own quarters, yet the sight of familiar black tents did not bring him peace or fill the emptiness of his mind. I should be beginning my journey to Hadeshe knew, and yet his feet were pummeling the same stretch of sand they had beaten for ten years.
At last he halted outside his own quarters, sucking in air, desperate to bring feeling back to his limbs. Adara awaited him inside, he knew, but for perhaps the first time this thought brought him no solace. Instead, an emotion more detestable than any he had felt yet welled within him. Guilt began to gnaw at the corners of his mind. She can never know that I was ready to die, that I wanted to leave her. And yet it was true. There was no lying to himself – the opportunity to end his life of suffering had arisen, and he had been ready to seize it without a second thought for the woman he loved.
Suddenly the void within him was bursting, a rushing pool of anger and remorse and most frighteningly, of exhaustion, forming in his gut. Burned into his retinas was the golden image of Penthesilea spitting in his direction, her war cries echoing in his ears, and a longing to turn tail and pound the Scaean gates of Troy until she met him upon the field. Knowing this was only a fools plan, Achilles took one deep, lung stretching breath, and finally pulled aside the flap to his tent and stepped into the familiar relief of darkness.
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She always knew when something was wrong. Like a six sense within her, Adara recognized the every twitch of his face. The wrinkle in his brow which meant he was drained from battle, the emptiness in his eyes when memories of death filled his mind, the quirk of his lip reserved only for her, or the imperceptible flex of his hand when he fought with himself to contain his rage. Achilles was a second language to her, something that came as naturally to Adara as to breathe.
And yet, when he walked into their shared tent that evening, she was at a loss for the meaning behind the expression on his face. He was blank, like folds of fresh linen, a canvas to be painted upon. Standing in their doorway, Adara felt her heart wrench in a new, unfamiliar way as she stared at him.
She did not ask what was wrong – he had always detested pity. Instead Adara stood and set aside the chiton she had been mending. Extending her hand to him, she waited until he shuffled forward and placed his hand in hers, his palm as familiar to her as sunrise. Adara forced him into the seat she had just exited, busying herself with pouring him and her a glass of wine from the decanter. Briefly she stuck her head out of the door and called to Nikias who was passing with a bundle of cloth under her arm to gather food for herself and Achilles. We will eat alone tonight Adara thought as Nikias bowed her head and changed her course for the provisions tent.
Returning to the darkness in her quarters and to the problem of the man before her, she found that Achilles had not moved. With an audible sigh to disguise the growing fear blossoming in her chest at his stillness, Adara set about undressing him. Greaves and armguards fell away easily under her practiced fingers, but she had to ask for help with his breastplate and skirt, as he stood and stepped out of the pieces. Their weight was staggering as she pushed them onto his armor stand, marveling not for the first time that he bore their weight every day into battle.
With ritualistic ease, she next moved the wash basin beside him and began to scrub him clean, the linen rags turning crimson with each swipe across his skin. Standing behind him, Adara was not required to stare into the unrecognizable expression on his face, instead hypnotizing herself with the way beads of water ran down his chest, grounding herself with his iron scent. Achilles softened under her ministrations, tilting his head back as she began to scrub his hair, returning it to its golden brilliance. Neither spoke, each lost to their thoughts as Adara tended to Achilles. He was firm under her hands, the heat of his skin a testament to the fact that he was still alive. For how much longer, I know notshe thought unbidden, her hands momentarily pausing to grip his shoulders in shock at the possibility of existing in this tent without him. Achilles took no notice of her sudden movement.
At last she was finished, and she tossed a chiton at him, motioning for Achilles to dress as she stepped out once more to receive the cloth of food from Nikias who waited beside their door.
"Thank you," Adara murmured, the other woman returning her smile before disappearing towards the center of camp where the men would be gathering for dinner. Already the steady trickle of smoke could be seen and the smell of roasting lamb wafted through the air.
"Achilles," Adara called, sticking her head inside. "Come."
If he was offended by the command, he did not show it, instead creaking to life and pulling the black fabric on his body before stepping out to join her. When she knew he was following, Adara turned tail and began to march across the sand, leading him past the tents to the shore where his ships lined the water as ever-present guards. Up the gangplank and onto the deck of Achilles' ship, the ship that bore me here, Adara at last allowed herself to feel some of the emotion she had been oppressing, and she curled around the bundle in her arms, staring out over the sea at the setting sun.
Immediately Achilles was behind her, always aware of her distress. His hands brushed the hair from her neck, and he placed his lips to the hollow at the crease of her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her and cloaking her in heat.
They stood like this for some time until the last of Apollo's light had faded from the sky and Achilles at last took control, plucking the sack of food from Adara's arms and leading her to the rear of the ship where they sat and ate.
"Are you going to tell me what happened today?" Adara asked at last, watching as he bit into a dried fig, his teeth glistening like a lion's as the soft fruit tore. Adara felt a flush of warmth across her cheeks as she watched him, always aware of his actions, of the ripple of his muscles, of his predator-like movement. He glanced at her over the top of his cup of wine, the emptiness in his expression earlier fading slightly into hunger that matched her own.
"The Trojans have summoned Amazon warriors," Achilles said after a long sip to consider his response. Adara, who knew nothing of the machinations of war, had grown up on tales of the Amazons. An elite fighting force of only women, the tales of their bravery and skill stretched up and down the Ionian coast, and Lyrnessus has not been an exception.
"Was anyone harmed?" She asked, suddenly breathless, before her eyes flashing the faces of Odysseus and Menelaus and the hundreds of men of Greece who had become her family.
"No," he said curtly, but there was a undeniable bitterness in his voice now, the warmth that had momentarily shone within him gone.
"Then why?" She demanded, suddenly angry. It is enough to ask me to sit in fear when you enter battle, let us not mince our words when there is so little time left she wanted to scream, but she withheld herself – barely. Achilles seemed to sense her annoyance. They were partners of one spirit, after all.
Suddenly Achilles lunged, drawing her in close to him like she was nothing more than a helpless lamb. He pressed his nose to her hair where she heard him inhale, his fingers forming claws as they sank into her skin, the line between their bodies growing thinner and thinner. Adara nestled into the warmth of his body, unable to see his face from this position and knowing it would be useless to try. His love had always been possessive, and after being cast a side by so many before him, she was happy to allow him this moment of control.
"Penthesilea, their leader, is my only equal in battle," Achilles finally explained, and she could feel the vibrations in his chest travel throughout her. Their points of contact burned in comparison to the cool night air, and yet she willed him to continue speaking, alarmed that this conversation was so stilted. They seemed to hang on a precipice, the only sound the mingling of their breaths and the gentle slap of waves against the ship hull.
"I thought I was going to see him, Adara," Achilles said, his voice so far removed from its typical imposing tones that she wondered if he might weep.
PatroclusAdara knew at once. There was no other in this world or the next that could bring forth such emotion from this man. He loved her, needed her even, but it was nothing to erase the mark that Achilles' companion had placed on him. Adara had come to accept this – that she could both be loved and insufficient. It no longer hurt her as it had in his initial breakdown after Patroclus' passing, for in truth, Achilles was not enough either. Yet we have chosen to make homes in what is left, in each othershe knew.
Yet Achilles words sucked any warmth she felt from her. The only way Achilles could see his friend was by passing over into the next life, by leaving me. There was a tremor in her heart, and then again the overwhelming sense of anger that she had been flooded by in the wake of his confession of godly prophecies. Poor Achilles, half man and half god, cursed to be a pawn in their game of life. It was pitiable, and still her anger grew.
"She is my only equal on the battlefield, and the gods denied me my glory," Achilles mumbled into Adara's hair, his arms pulling her tighter until she thought she might cease breathing.
"It is not your time," Adara countered, placing her hands on his chest and trying to pull herself away. They seemed to be in a battle of wills, Adara desperate for him to live, Achilles anxious to go, both frantic to stay in this present moment together where the fates were no more than ideas and death did not lurk in their future. At last Adara succeeded in pulling away, rolling across the deck of Achilles' ship and getting to her feet.
"He would not want this for you, this race to the finish," Adara told him, knowing the truth in her words. Achilles sat up, even in the darkness his eyes inviting, begging her to dive into his depths.
"I did not tell you of my fortunes so that you could try and deny them, Adara," he said, and his ease speaking of his own passing infuriated her further. "We both knew what was coming."
"Nor did it mean that you should run to it with open arms," she snapped, turning and forming her hands into fists. "Once you told me that you would fight Hades and Cerberus and all the guards of Tartarus to return to me should the gods separate us. When did that change?" She demanded. "I am not Patroclus, nor would I ever endeavor to be, but would you truly abandon me to join him?" When did I stop being enoughshe did not say, but the silence echoed with the unspoken question. Perhaps it was unfair to make him choose between the two, especially when the decision was already made, but his easy acceptance of Penthesilea's presence on the battlefield and what that could mean chilled her to the bone.
"I cheated Hades for almost ten years, Adara, it could not continue forever," he said, his own anger sparking. Neither of them had ever felt things in small quantities, his own rage rising to meet hers. "The decision cannot be undone."
"Nor do you have to long for it, to bring it's end closer than needed," she countered, wanting to rip her hair from her skull, the image of Achilles laying prone upon the table that bore Patroclus' and Actor before him springing to the forefront of her mind.
"I am tired, Adara," Achilles said, at once his demeanor changing, at last placing a name upon the unknown expression Adara had seen on his face when he entered their tent returning from battle. At once, Adara's own anger sagged and then wilted, her shoulders hunching as if she had been struck.
He stood before her, hands laced behind his head, the tail of his chiton fluttering in the slight breeze, his eyes boring into hers. He had been a tool, shaped and sharped by the gods for death, acquainted with its intricacies from a young age, defined by his ability to end the lives of others, fearless in the face of it, and yet at last – at last he has been exhausted by it. Adara felt pity for him, and pity for herself for loving him. His face was open, twenty and eight summers, and only a man. She drank in the image of him, starlight on his skin, unsure how she could face a future when he would not be there to argue with and laugh with and to share a look that only he could complete.
"I never thought that I would drag others into my decision when I made it, Adara. And yet, if I had not made it, you would not be here before me. I was destined to lose you no matter the course," he said, bearing his soul before her, his hands coming to rest at his hips. His words echoed the wisdom of Apollo, Adara knew she was being unfair, and yet she still could not push away the image of his corpse. This was an old fight, like picking at an old scar, but Adara had been blindsided by his eagerness to die. Wouldn't you be tired too?
He held out his arms to her, plainly asking forgiveness for bringing her into his own misery. He had made no apology for what he felt, and she knew he would not.He is ready to go. Nothing Adara could say or do would ever change that, all that was left was to decide whether or not take the high road and show mercy for this situation. In the end it was not much of a question. Hugging herself, Adara swallowed, forming the words in her thoughts before croaking to life.
"If you must face her tomorrow, face her because it is your duty to Greece and to yourself to be the greatest of warriors, not because you long for a an end," Adara pleaded, watching as Achilles slowly moved forward. "Do this small favor for me, so that if you should fall in the morn, I will know it was not in grief."
She felt his arms wrap around her, knew that she had accepted his death, given him her blessing to travel on past this life without her. Gods help meshe thought as she pressed her forehead against his chest.
"Should this be the end-" Achilles began, but Adara squirmed in his grasp.
"Should this be the end, in this life, then I will see you in the next," Adara assured. She knew it was not in her power to assure this, but even the gods, who were cruel, had nothing to gain by giving her this small boon after such grief.
"To the next, I shall wait for you," he whispered into her ear, pulling her once more back to the deck of the ship where once they had been nothing but distant enemies.
