Author's Note: Spellings that are closer to direct greek translations are used instead of the traditional latinized spellings.
The standard legal disclaimer: I don't own troy or the Illiad or the Aeneid or any of the characters, etc, etc, no challenge to existing copyrights is intended, yadda, yadda ad nauseam
----------------------------------
The thud has never been louder behind me. I try to tell myself that it is not the pounding of my own heart in my ears, that it is simply because there is no fanfare this time. Indeed, it is likely the first time I have ever emerged from Troy without a retinue, surrounded by my father's best fighting men riding chargers worthy of Poseidon's own stables. For once, my armor is not covered with resplendent ornamentation, and I wear a helmet instead of a golden wreath. My people would not have their prince and heir-apparent ride before them in any other way. Today, I am emerging with only utility in mind, and not appearance.
I meet the gaze of the man standing before me gritting my teeth and telling myself that I am unafraid. The eyes that meet mine do not seem to belong to a man, but rather to a beast. A feral monster daring any hunter short of Artemis- nay, daring Artemis herself! -to try to take him for a trophy.
The gates of my beloved city are simply opening and closing, as they have done countless times before. The image of a death shroud closing behind me is nothing but a gadfly thought emerging from that core of animal instinct that cares for nothing but survival. Something present to some degree in all men. The learned and the oafish alike might call it cowardice.
Cowardice. Such an ugly word. I shake my head and try to dispel the image of my younger brother the word brings to mind. He was young and much as he might have argued otherwise, he'd had no concept of what he was getting into. It is one thing to know that someone is better than you, but quite another to have it demonstrated firsthand in the most violent way. Menelaos had been a warrior. A skilled veteran of campaigns. He'd known how to wield a sword, how to move in armor so that a blow only grazed bronze instead of drawing blood. More than that, he knew how to bluster and make his size seem to grow before an opponent's eyes, most especially an opponent who was an unblooded youth. No, Paris had been beyond overmatched in that duel.
Still.
I can't dispel the image of the scornful Greeks, shouting and jeering at us. The panicked, doe-eyed expression on Paris' face as he crawled away from Menelaos, bloodied and almost broken. And most of all, I can't rid myself of the memory of the pathetic whimpers he'd made as he clutched my leg. I would dive into Tartaros for him happily, and have said as much on more than one occasion. But, may Apollo forgive me, for that one moment of time, I looked down at my brother and felt nothing but shame.
For an instant, I had wanted to kick him away and tell him to own up as a man should. Praise to the gods, I did not. But when I ran Menelaos through, it was not so much because he was threatening Paris as much my selfish need to wash away the dirty, scornful image with murderous aggression. Aggression that, for that one, awful moment that I will forever hate myself for, I'd wanted to direct toward Paris.
In the heat of the moment, it is often easy to forget one's priorities. Kidnapping Helen had been youthful foolishness. His resolution to follow Helen if she was returned to Sparta had sheer stubborn idiocy (and how much a good blow to his nose would have satisfied me at that moment, too). But facing a man who he knew outmatched him many times over not only for a woman's love, but for the lives on both sides that would be saved by an end to the conflict? Fleeing back and facing that woman after being so humiliated, knowing that she would rather have her shamed lover in her arms instead of the memory of a heroic corpse? Being able to face father after that display that forced Troy once again into open conflict?
I think that perhaps my young brother knows more of true courage than I.
He has the courage to face life. I, on the other hand, am doing what seems so much simpler. I'm facing death.
For a moment, a trick of Apollo's chariot turns the darkly-armored man into a silhouette. But for his eyes! They seem to glow with some inner fire; the man's raw will to destroy. As if sensing that unhallowed moment, he utters a growl that sounds like it was torn from the throat of Kerberos itself.
Abruptly, I realize that I am letting my wits escape. The legend of Akhilleus, the man before me, is threatening to overwhelm me. I chide myself for allowing my imagination to wander before a fight. If... no, when the fight begins, stray thoughts would get me killed. The smart man thinks only of his opponent and surviving the moment. In some far-off land, they might call it a state of no-mind. I simply call it paying attention to what's important.
He moves his arm, and for a moment, it seems that he is going to attack without any comment, but instead, he removes his helmet.
I look at his face, wreathed in golden hair, unburdened by a shell of darkened bronze. And I realize that his eyes are just two tiles of the mosaic of his face, a work that reminds me of nothing so much as a stout but splintering dam- struggling to hold back the rampaging flood of fury behind it. And I want very much for him to replace his helmet.
"I want you to know who you're fighting," he states in a voice like unto Olympian Zeus' when passing down proclamations from the heavens.
There is no doubt that the barely-contained river of his rage is directed solely at me. Let father and Agamemnon rot, let flames consume Troy and plague take the Achaean land, but he aims to see my heart's blood drying on the sand before the day is out.
I sigh inwardly and respond. This will be a fight to the death, and though the dream Apollo sent to me was unclear on this point, I feel in my bones that the death will be mine. That's fine. I'm prepared for that. Only the gods of Olympus have time eternal, and to die in defense of my beloved city is hardly a poor way to depart.
Words are exchanged, appealing to Akhilleus to observe propriety. It would almost seem foolish to an outsider. It certainly seems silly to me: Come my friend, I will try to kill you and you will try to kill me, but let us be civil and polite about it, shall we?
His response is a negative, and I find myself unsurprised at that. As well try to parley with a thunderstorm or crashing wave. What takes me aback is his voice. Vigorous almost to the point of frenzy. For a moment, I can say nothing. Does he hate me that much?
Images come to me of the young boy, Patroklos, attired in the same armor that Akhilleus now wears. Once again, I see him looking up at me, his eyes full of pain, accusation, and sheer incomprehension as he gags and drowns in his own blood.
The warlord king Odysseus told me then that the boy (of an age with Paris, covered in his own blood after battling a foe he had no business facing) was the friend and pupil of Akhilleus. Yes, perhaps he does have good reason to hate me. I try to imagine how I would feel if it were Paris who had foolishly met blades with Akhilleus and been cut down. Would I do the same? Would I mount my chariot and ride out to the beach where the invaders made camp and shout the name of my enemy until I was hoarse?
Or would I do my duty to my king, my city, and my people?
He replaces his helmet and the time for words is at an end. I grip my spear and advance.
And suddenly, my world is moving too fast for me to keep up. I dodge, weave, evade, move in to strikeonlytobedrivenbackbyafuriousassault that I barely avoid- his spear flickers like a serpent's tongue and only unconscious fighter's instincts prevent me from being skewered.
The sand grinds underfoot and the enormity of what I have gotten into begins to settle around my shoulders. Akhilleus, the Proud Runner, the Man Slayer. His path has lead him to this place and this day, every footfall the death rattle of an opponent, every step taken over the bones of another enemy. The clatter of blocked shafts and spearheads rebounding from shields fills my ears with a roar borne of Zeus' fury. The grunting and straining and burning sensation of my breath in my lungs seems as nothing to the determined hiss emerging from within that dark helmet. For a moment, as he leaps to my side and rams his spear down with strength sufficient to impale a horse, I can almost believe that his mother is the Nereid Thetis, and that he is not a man but a force of nature; a massive wave breaking on jagged cliffs. No, perhaps not jagged cliffs, for my defense is faltering and giving way in a fashion that no rock would, barely keeping the ragged breath in my lungs from being torn out by his spear.
With a snap my spear breaks under his assault, and I retreat, panting, momentarily weaponless. The broken butt of the spear is useless. Even though the newly-sharpened edges of wood could easily spit a man if given a strong enough arm, such a lunge would be a surprise gambit at best, designed to foil an overconfident opponent or a fool. And Akhilleus, though barely controlling his anger, is no fool. I scramble to release my sword from its scabbard, trying to shake the impression that the time to do so is a courtesy he is paying me.
Hades take him! He isn't even breathing hard!
His attack is swift but simple, and the ripple of his muscles may as well have shouted his intentions from the highest mountains. It is a simple matter to trap his spear and break off the head. He discards the broken weapon impatiently, as if the need to do so was overdue by a good margin. His sword slides out from its scabbard with the scrape of metal-on-metal and he holds it out before him, pointing it directly at my throat. The razor edges collide into a tip that is almost as sharp as his gaze.
Again the rush, the sensation of a great tide trying to pull me under, my increasingly frantic struggles to remain alive, one heartbeat ahead of my aggressor, the clang of bronze, the bone-jarring impact that sends shockwaves through my arm and threatens to numb my hand and wouldn't that be a foolish way to die the so-called 'Great' prince Hektor unable to keep a grip on his sword and being beaten like a pimpled youth in the drilling yard and now I've slipped and- GREAT APOLLO-
I stumble back several steps, gripping my now-wounded leg. My defense and offense were imperfectly balanced for one eyeblink and he seized his opportunity to draw first blood. Is it? I thought for sure that one or both of us had been... no, I know that I was in pain within the first few moments, but he has only just begun to sweat. In a moment of absurd clarity, it occurs to me that this is the first cutting blow that I have been dealt in recent memory, and the sensation feels as if my entire leg is afire. Have I forgotten the last time I felt such pain? Have I ever really been in pain like this? Surely I must have. Yet it seems almost more than I can bear to take. How silly. Father must be told that a soldier who knows no pain is at a disadvantage and that our training regimens should be altered to reflect this.
The pain dies slightly. Enough that if I grit my teeth I can move, as I am now, furiously propelling myself forward lashing out with my sword and the broken head of one of the spears that I obtained somewhere. Again and again, our swords clash and our bodies strain, blows miss by an eyelash here, a fingernail there. My movements are quick and efficient with little wasted motion (well, more than when I began, my muscles are burning so). But Akhilleus does not look to be fighting at all. His motions are fluid, like ice brought in from the cold and slid across a cooking skillet. Every stroke and slash looks more like a dance movement: graceful, almost elegant.
And finally I realize something: I never truly had a chance. I was doomed the moment I stepped outside of Troy's walls. I may be a skilled killer, but Akhilleus is the very embodiment of killing. And I wonder how the gods can let such a man come to be. Taking the life of another, no matter the circumstances, carries the most weight of anything a man can do. The burden of that weight could suffocate prince and pauper alike, keeping him awake over long nights and driving him to drink to forget. Yet for all that, it seems that it is all Akhilleus has ever known.
How empty must his life be? There is a hole in him that he can never fill, no matter how many corpses he throws into it. How can he cover it in times of peace? With a lover?
Or with a young friend who he was trying to make into a better man than himself?
Yes, Akhilleus has ample reason to hate me.
Another exchange, dash, spin, and there! I twist away and hold my sword out to him, wondering why I don't feel like grinning triumphantly. He stands back and looks down, almost uncomprehending, at where I struck him a clean blow. It wasn't a strong blow, but it had landed. His defense is fallible. He isn't immortal.
Rushing, meeting the momentum of a falling tree, movement like an uncoiling snake, pain.
For some reason my body refuses to move further. The look in his eyes- why is he up there?- has changed. He seems... unsatisfied.
I try to force my way through the haze of pain that surrounds me and take advantage of the pause but something blocks my way. Such agony, like my chest has been torn open.
Belatedly, I realize that I have been stabbed. Has it hit my heart? Shouldn't there be more blood? No, if it had, I'd be dead. Aren't I already?
Though my vision is blurry, I see Akhilleus approaching me, the angrily disappointed expression on his face reminding me of a galled master craftsman after a poor day at the market. Still furious, those eyes... but empty somehow. He will finish me. I know that. But it will not be enough. Patroklos has already crossed the Styx, and he will never return. He will send me the same way, but no matter how many more he kills, he will never again smile at the boy's exuberance. No, Akhilleus will be a very lonely man.
What was it he told me at the temple? Something about fame or glory. Hard to remember. Hard to even think with a bronze shard in my breast. But yes, glory. He wanted to strike me down where all could see and sing his name, not caring whether the voices were full of adulation or malediction. That is all he will have. I took everything else from him when I cut Patroklos' throat.
"It will one day be written of this war", I try to tell him, "'This is a story of the wrath of Akhilleus, who sent so many brave fighters to their doom.'" I try, but nothing comes beyond a pained exhalation. Perhaps my breath is escaping from the new hole in my chest, punctured like a deflated bellows.
He is over me now, raising his sword. Slowly, it seems. His eyes have not changed, and I know that he will never stop killing. That he is doomed to a life of bloodshed. Anything else that he had, and that I did not take, he discarded. He is a shell. A suit of armor with no heart beneath it to protect. I cannot find it in myself to hate him.
The light gleams off of his blade as it begins its descent. The light from Apollo's chariot. Yes. Apollo who sent me the dream from the gates of horn, making me into an oracle for a night. The dream that directed me to show the secret escape route to Andromache.
Ah, my beloved Andromache. Still the most beauteous creature alive. If the gods opened up a gateway to another world and allowed a young woman hand-groomed by Aphrodite to fall into my time, she would be nothing compared to my wife. Andromache is safe and will go on living, and that is all that matters.
I try to smile as the blade bites into my body, but the agony of escaping blood and parting flesh tears through me. No matter. I have done all I can to ensure our survival. Andromache is not the only one I revealed the escape route to. Apollo's dream bade me to show it to another youth, one who will escape and re-establish a new Troy, grander than ever, such that the world will bow at our feet. Aeneas. Yes, that was the boy's name.
The world is swirling. Akhilleus seems to be dancing and weaving before me. Something hits my back. Of course, the ground. I'm tired, but I've done my duty. My wife and the spirit of Troy will survive. And as I look up, there is no more pain, only an infinite expanse of blue sky.
The standard legal disclaimer: I don't own troy or the Illiad or the Aeneid or any of the characters, etc, etc, no challenge to existing copyrights is intended, yadda, yadda ad nauseam
----------------------------------
The thud has never been louder behind me. I try to tell myself that it is not the pounding of my own heart in my ears, that it is simply because there is no fanfare this time. Indeed, it is likely the first time I have ever emerged from Troy without a retinue, surrounded by my father's best fighting men riding chargers worthy of Poseidon's own stables. For once, my armor is not covered with resplendent ornamentation, and I wear a helmet instead of a golden wreath. My people would not have their prince and heir-apparent ride before them in any other way. Today, I am emerging with only utility in mind, and not appearance.
I meet the gaze of the man standing before me gritting my teeth and telling myself that I am unafraid. The eyes that meet mine do not seem to belong to a man, but rather to a beast. A feral monster daring any hunter short of Artemis- nay, daring Artemis herself! -to try to take him for a trophy.
The gates of my beloved city are simply opening and closing, as they have done countless times before. The image of a death shroud closing behind me is nothing but a gadfly thought emerging from that core of animal instinct that cares for nothing but survival. Something present to some degree in all men. The learned and the oafish alike might call it cowardice.
Cowardice. Such an ugly word. I shake my head and try to dispel the image of my younger brother the word brings to mind. He was young and much as he might have argued otherwise, he'd had no concept of what he was getting into. It is one thing to know that someone is better than you, but quite another to have it demonstrated firsthand in the most violent way. Menelaos had been a warrior. A skilled veteran of campaigns. He'd known how to wield a sword, how to move in armor so that a blow only grazed bronze instead of drawing blood. More than that, he knew how to bluster and make his size seem to grow before an opponent's eyes, most especially an opponent who was an unblooded youth. No, Paris had been beyond overmatched in that duel.
Still.
I can't dispel the image of the scornful Greeks, shouting and jeering at us. The panicked, doe-eyed expression on Paris' face as he crawled away from Menelaos, bloodied and almost broken. And most of all, I can't rid myself of the memory of the pathetic whimpers he'd made as he clutched my leg. I would dive into Tartaros for him happily, and have said as much on more than one occasion. But, may Apollo forgive me, for that one moment of time, I looked down at my brother and felt nothing but shame.
For an instant, I had wanted to kick him away and tell him to own up as a man should. Praise to the gods, I did not. But when I ran Menelaos through, it was not so much because he was threatening Paris as much my selfish need to wash away the dirty, scornful image with murderous aggression. Aggression that, for that one, awful moment that I will forever hate myself for, I'd wanted to direct toward Paris.
In the heat of the moment, it is often easy to forget one's priorities. Kidnapping Helen had been youthful foolishness. His resolution to follow Helen if she was returned to Sparta had sheer stubborn idiocy (and how much a good blow to his nose would have satisfied me at that moment, too). But facing a man who he knew outmatched him many times over not only for a woman's love, but for the lives on both sides that would be saved by an end to the conflict? Fleeing back and facing that woman after being so humiliated, knowing that she would rather have her shamed lover in her arms instead of the memory of a heroic corpse? Being able to face father after that display that forced Troy once again into open conflict?
I think that perhaps my young brother knows more of true courage than I.
He has the courage to face life. I, on the other hand, am doing what seems so much simpler. I'm facing death.
For a moment, a trick of Apollo's chariot turns the darkly-armored man into a silhouette. But for his eyes! They seem to glow with some inner fire; the man's raw will to destroy. As if sensing that unhallowed moment, he utters a growl that sounds like it was torn from the throat of Kerberos itself.
Abruptly, I realize that I am letting my wits escape. The legend of Akhilleus, the man before me, is threatening to overwhelm me. I chide myself for allowing my imagination to wander before a fight. If... no, when the fight begins, stray thoughts would get me killed. The smart man thinks only of his opponent and surviving the moment. In some far-off land, they might call it a state of no-mind. I simply call it paying attention to what's important.
He moves his arm, and for a moment, it seems that he is going to attack without any comment, but instead, he removes his helmet.
I look at his face, wreathed in golden hair, unburdened by a shell of darkened bronze. And I realize that his eyes are just two tiles of the mosaic of his face, a work that reminds me of nothing so much as a stout but splintering dam- struggling to hold back the rampaging flood of fury behind it. And I want very much for him to replace his helmet.
"I want you to know who you're fighting," he states in a voice like unto Olympian Zeus' when passing down proclamations from the heavens.
There is no doubt that the barely-contained river of his rage is directed solely at me. Let father and Agamemnon rot, let flames consume Troy and plague take the Achaean land, but he aims to see my heart's blood drying on the sand before the day is out.
I sigh inwardly and respond. This will be a fight to the death, and though the dream Apollo sent to me was unclear on this point, I feel in my bones that the death will be mine. That's fine. I'm prepared for that. Only the gods of Olympus have time eternal, and to die in defense of my beloved city is hardly a poor way to depart.
Words are exchanged, appealing to Akhilleus to observe propriety. It would almost seem foolish to an outsider. It certainly seems silly to me: Come my friend, I will try to kill you and you will try to kill me, but let us be civil and polite about it, shall we?
His response is a negative, and I find myself unsurprised at that. As well try to parley with a thunderstorm or crashing wave. What takes me aback is his voice. Vigorous almost to the point of frenzy. For a moment, I can say nothing. Does he hate me that much?
Images come to me of the young boy, Patroklos, attired in the same armor that Akhilleus now wears. Once again, I see him looking up at me, his eyes full of pain, accusation, and sheer incomprehension as he gags and drowns in his own blood.
The warlord king Odysseus told me then that the boy (of an age with Paris, covered in his own blood after battling a foe he had no business facing) was the friend and pupil of Akhilleus. Yes, perhaps he does have good reason to hate me. I try to imagine how I would feel if it were Paris who had foolishly met blades with Akhilleus and been cut down. Would I do the same? Would I mount my chariot and ride out to the beach where the invaders made camp and shout the name of my enemy until I was hoarse?
Or would I do my duty to my king, my city, and my people?
He replaces his helmet and the time for words is at an end. I grip my spear and advance.
And suddenly, my world is moving too fast for me to keep up. I dodge, weave, evade, move in to strikeonlytobedrivenbackbyafuriousassault that I barely avoid- his spear flickers like a serpent's tongue and only unconscious fighter's instincts prevent me from being skewered.
The sand grinds underfoot and the enormity of what I have gotten into begins to settle around my shoulders. Akhilleus, the Proud Runner, the Man Slayer. His path has lead him to this place and this day, every footfall the death rattle of an opponent, every step taken over the bones of another enemy. The clatter of blocked shafts and spearheads rebounding from shields fills my ears with a roar borne of Zeus' fury. The grunting and straining and burning sensation of my breath in my lungs seems as nothing to the determined hiss emerging from within that dark helmet. For a moment, as he leaps to my side and rams his spear down with strength sufficient to impale a horse, I can almost believe that his mother is the Nereid Thetis, and that he is not a man but a force of nature; a massive wave breaking on jagged cliffs. No, perhaps not jagged cliffs, for my defense is faltering and giving way in a fashion that no rock would, barely keeping the ragged breath in my lungs from being torn out by his spear.
With a snap my spear breaks under his assault, and I retreat, panting, momentarily weaponless. The broken butt of the spear is useless. Even though the newly-sharpened edges of wood could easily spit a man if given a strong enough arm, such a lunge would be a surprise gambit at best, designed to foil an overconfident opponent or a fool. And Akhilleus, though barely controlling his anger, is no fool. I scramble to release my sword from its scabbard, trying to shake the impression that the time to do so is a courtesy he is paying me.
Hades take him! He isn't even breathing hard!
His attack is swift but simple, and the ripple of his muscles may as well have shouted his intentions from the highest mountains. It is a simple matter to trap his spear and break off the head. He discards the broken weapon impatiently, as if the need to do so was overdue by a good margin. His sword slides out from its scabbard with the scrape of metal-on-metal and he holds it out before him, pointing it directly at my throat. The razor edges collide into a tip that is almost as sharp as his gaze.
Again the rush, the sensation of a great tide trying to pull me under, my increasingly frantic struggles to remain alive, one heartbeat ahead of my aggressor, the clang of bronze, the bone-jarring impact that sends shockwaves through my arm and threatens to numb my hand and wouldn't that be a foolish way to die the so-called 'Great' prince Hektor unable to keep a grip on his sword and being beaten like a pimpled youth in the drilling yard and now I've slipped and- GREAT APOLLO-
I stumble back several steps, gripping my now-wounded leg. My defense and offense were imperfectly balanced for one eyeblink and he seized his opportunity to draw first blood. Is it? I thought for sure that one or both of us had been... no, I know that I was in pain within the first few moments, but he has only just begun to sweat. In a moment of absurd clarity, it occurs to me that this is the first cutting blow that I have been dealt in recent memory, and the sensation feels as if my entire leg is afire. Have I forgotten the last time I felt such pain? Have I ever really been in pain like this? Surely I must have. Yet it seems almost more than I can bear to take. How silly. Father must be told that a soldier who knows no pain is at a disadvantage and that our training regimens should be altered to reflect this.
The pain dies slightly. Enough that if I grit my teeth I can move, as I am now, furiously propelling myself forward lashing out with my sword and the broken head of one of the spears that I obtained somewhere. Again and again, our swords clash and our bodies strain, blows miss by an eyelash here, a fingernail there. My movements are quick and efficient with little wasted motion (well, more than when I began, my muscles are burning so). But Akhilleus does not look to be fighting at all. His motions are fluid, like ice brought in from the cold and slid across a cooking skillet. Every stroke and slash looks more like a dance movement: graceful, almost elegant.
And finally I realize something: I never truly had a chance. I was doomed the moment I stepped outside of Troy's walls. I may be a skilled killer, but Akhilleus is the very embodiment of killing. And I wonder how the gods can let such a man come to be. Taking the life of another, no matter the circumstances, carries the most weight of anything a man can do. The burden of that weight could suffocate prince and pauper alike, keeping him awake over long nights and driving him to drink to forget. Yet for all that, it seems that it is all Akhilleus has ever known.
How empty must his life be? There is a hole in him that he can never fill, no matter how many corpses he throws into it. How can he cover it in times of peace? With a lover?
Or with a young friend who he was trying to make into a better man than himself?
Yes, Akhilleus has ample reason to hate me.
Another exchange, dash, spin, and there! I twist away and hold my sword out to him, wondering why I don't feel like grinning triumphantly. He stands back and looks down, almost uncomprehending, at where I struck him a clean blow. It wasn't a strong blow, but it had landed. His defense is fallible. He isn't immortal.
Rushing, meeting the momentum of a falling tree, movement like an uncoiling snake, pain.
For some reason my body refuses to move further. The look in his eyes- why is he up there?- has changed. He seems... unsatisfied.
I try to force my way through the haze of pain that surrounds me and take advantage of the pause but something blocks my way. Such agony, like my chest has been torn open.
Belatedly, I realize that I have been stabbed. Has it hit my heart? Shouldn't there be more blood? No, if it had, I'd be dead. Aren't I already?
Though my vision is blurry, I see Akhilleus approaching me, the angrily disappointed expression on his face reminding me of a galled master craftsman after a poor day at the market. Still furious, those eyes... but empty somehow. He will finish me. I know that. But it will not be enough. Patroklos has already crossed the Styx, and he will never return. He will send me the same way, but no matter how many more he kills, he will never again smile at the boy's exuberance. No, Akhilleus will be a very lonely man.
What was it he told me at the temple? Something about fame or glory. Hard to remember. Hard to even think with a bronze shard in my breast. But yes, glory. He wanted to strike me down where all could see and sing his name, not caring whether the voices were full of adulation or malediction. That is all he will have. I took everything else from him when I cut Patroklos' throat.
"It will one day be written of this war", I try to tell him, "'This is a story of the wrath of Akhilleus, who sent so many brave fighters to their doom.'" I try, but nothing comes beyond a pained exhalation. Perhaps my breath is escaping from the new hole in my chest, punctured like a deflated bellows.
He is over me now, raising his sword. Slowly, it seems. His eyes have not changed, and I know that he will never stop killing. That he is doomed to a life of bloodshed. Anything else that he had, and that I did not take, he discarded. He is a shell. A suit of armor with no heart beneath it to protect. I cannot find it in myself to hate him.
The light gleams off of his blade as it begins its descent. The light from Apollo's chariot. Yes. Apollo who sent me the dream from the gates of horn, making me into an oracle for a night. The dream that directed me to show the secret escape route to Andromache.
Ah, my beloved Andromache. Still the most beauteous creature alive. If the gods opened up a gateway to another world and allowed a young woman hand-groomed by Aphrodite to fall into my time, she would be nothing compared to my wife. Andromache is safe and will go on living, and that is all that matters.
I try to smile as the blade bites into my body, but the agony of escaping blood and parting flesh tears through me. No matter. I have done all I can to ensure our survival. Andromache is not the only one I revealed the escape route to. Apollo's dream bade me to show it to another youth, one who will escape and re-establish a new Troy, grander than ever, such that the world will bow at our feet. Aeneas. Yes, that was the boy's name.
The world is swirling. Akhilleus seems to be dancing and weaving before me. Something hits my back. Of course, the ground. I'm tired, but I've done my duty. My wife and the spirit of Troy will survive. And as I look up, there is no more pain, only an infinite expanse of blue sky.