Author's Note: Sorry if I didn't clarify how Paris died, I will speak about it in this chapter. Many thanks to those who took the time to review my story. Happy reading!
Odysseus looked at his men. They were tired, but they savored their victory. They had robbed Troy of all its valuables before it burned to the ground. And it did, for the most parts, just like Agamemnon promised. Agamemnon was dead, he couldn't say he was sad about the man passing. At least now Ithaca had no major kingdoms to fear. He felt sorrow, however, at his dear friend's passing. A soldier had reported to seeing Achilles getting shot by Prince Paris, and then falling to the ground. Moments later though, the yard was too surrounded by fire for him to get through. What disturbed him the most was that Achilles never had the chance to have a proper funeral service.
Odysses sighed. He ordered his men to pack up for the sail home.
The next few days he could not properly remember. It was as though they had not passed. Achilles was in an dream-like state, brimming under the line of consciousness, but never fully awake. It was a fitful sleep, a listless slumber. And he dreamt, again. Of many things, some which he would had preferred not to think about. The past events replayed in his mind. But of course one did not have control over one's dreams, especially when one was so near Death's door.
He dreamed of her, of her fresh scent, her innocent expression, of the conversations that they'd had. It seemed a long time ago, that she was sitting in his tent, doing her best to retain her dignity, when her clothes were tattered and torn, and her face was dirty and scratched. Yet she had held her head high and kept her grounds. Why did you choose this life? She asked him with sarcasm in her voice, to be a great warrior? He had answered that he chose nothing, he was born and this was what he was. And when she said he was no different than thousands of soldiers, he had denied it. True, he was many times more skilled and powerful than them, but the thing was, their purpose were the same. To kill and conquer. There was a depth and wisdom in her words.
Achilles wanted power, but fame most of all. What do all men want, I just want it more. He himself had told her that. And he'd been fighting for that his whole life, proving he was better than anyone else, that was why he came to Troy. To be remembered. But now he would be remembered, he had gotten what he most wished for, and he came to realize that it wasn't all that important to him anymore. He had two ways to live his life: to fight for honor, and never be truly satisfied; to live in danger and search for what he could never find; Or he could live his days with pleasure, fill his life with joy; and in the end he would still die, but he'd die a much happier man.
As he tossed and turned, the dream changed. his mother's image slowly crept into his mind, replacing the shadow of Briseis. She was standing by the water, holding a handful of seashells. He remembered the meeting as though it had happened yesterday. Thetis was a confident woman. She had aged well, time went easy on her, and she was beautiful despite her years. There was always that magical aura around her. Sometimes he felt if there ever was a link to the Gods, it was through her.
"If you go to Troy, glory will be yours. They will write stories about your victories in thousands of years! And the world will remember your name. But if you go to Troy, you will never come back... for your glory walks hand-in-hand with your doom. And I shall never see you again."
She had told him that, and he had not doubted her words. But for once, she was wrong. There will be stories, yes, and he would most certainly be remembered. But he had not died, at least not in the physical sense, yes, he had changed, as a man, but Hell had not claimed him yet.
The picture of her dissolved and reshifted in his mind's eye. His mother's face stared at him, her expression was that of longing and determination. Suddenly he felt like a little boy and desperately wanted to be in her arms. She finally spoke,
"My son, I watched as you fell. I saw. The Gods blessed me with the ability to see beyond. You cannot possibly know the gratitude I felt when you were returned to me. For a moment I thought you were gone. Don't you see? I could not let that happen. I prayed. I prayed to the Gods for your safety, for your rescue. I felt that the mare that was sent to you was no ordinary horse, it was the answer to my prayers. I knew, the moment that you opened your eyes, that you weren't destined to fight. Yes, you've lived well, but that road is not for you. You've been given a second chance, go, son, follow the trail of your dreams..."
Thetis closed her eyes and Achilles felt a gentle touch on his forehead. Involuntarily he clenched his eyelids tightly and tried to hold on to it. Then it was gone in a flash, along with the image of his mother. But I need your guidance! He cried. He felt a pang of homesickness. He wanted to see his mother again.
Achilles woke up. For a moment he did not know where he was, or how he came to be there. Then it all came flooding back. He almost flinched at the enormity of it. Follow the trails of your dreams? What did that mean? The horse...Glancing around, Achilles noted that the white mare that he rode out of Troy was no where to be seen.
Gingerly he sat up, surpised to find that little pain came with the movement. His muscles felt sore, but that was all. Still awed, he checked his chest wounds, they were almost completely healed, the pink scar tissues were already forming. How long had he been out? Certainly not that long. He stretched, and remembered his foot. If he'd been surprised before, then he was shocked now. He found that the arrow that had been through his heel was lying beside his foot, still intact, and the puncture itself was completely healed. It was truly a work of the Gods. His mother's words rang in his ears. Follow the trail of your dreams… Suddenly he understood. She knew about his love! Of course, little escapes Thetis. She could read a person's thoughts and feelings like no one else could.
He slowly crept to his feet. The sun shone down on him. He opened his eyes wide and welcomed the warming rays.
The great and brave Achilles had gotten up again.
The days passed by rather fast. He missed tbe presence of the horse. From the little time that she'd been with him he could sense something extraordinary about it, and his mother's words had certainly confirmed that. He could use some company, in this forsaken land.
He had made a return to Troy, or what was left of it, to the respect of Paris's wishes. He found Paris right outside a temple, probably the last one standing in the ruins of the city. A sword pierced through his heart. Achilles felt sorry for the prince, despite the fact that he had tried to kill him.
Remembering Paris's request, Achilles hunted down his bow and arrows, lying ten feet away from the body, at the entrance of the building. All of a sudden he felt the need to go inside and pray to Apollo, just as Briseis had done. He was more than thankful for his survival, and the idea of the Gods didn't seem quite as ridiculous any more, considering what had happened to him. This is what happens when a man takes a tour in Hell, it changes them, makes them appreciate life. Achilles almost smiled to himself.
He knelt in front of a smashed statue of the sun god and said his prayers. Just as he was about to head back outside, he paused by the stairs that led down to the lower level of the builiding. He felt a slight draft coming in. How could that be? He was puzzled. Hesitating, he headed down the stairs. The room was empty save one portrait. He examined a life-sized portrait of Apollo on the wall, it wasn't ruined, surprisingly, like most of everything else upstairs. Carefully he lifted the picture and raised one eyebrow at his discovery. It was a door.
Helen felt ill, and not just emotionally either. She must have caught something in the past few days. They had not eaten well, some men hunted, with what little weapons they had, but they relied most on the wild plants that they found. Just this morning she was fighting the strong urges of nausea, maybe it was something she ate, a poisonous grass perhaps, she did not know.
Everyone's spirits were low, and she didn't blame them. They were pulled out of their homes and away from their families to have this migration, and the chances of their survival was not definite. For once she realized the full extent of the horror of their situation. She was talking about rebuilding a civilization, for gods' sakes. And all they had in their group was old men, or those too young to fight, to start all over again would be very difficult if not outright impossible.
Helen sighed. She seemed to be doing a lot of that these days.
Achilles opened the door cautiously and peered into the darkness. In front of him was a flight of stairs leading even further from the top of the earth. There was a faint smell of mildew in the air, underneath the heavy stink of smoke.
Achilles ventured into the dark hall, leaving the door ajar for light. But soon he went to deep to be able to see much. He felt around. He was in a corridor of sorts. The walls were smooth and polished. His eyes opened wide in wonder as he realized that this corridor must have stood here for years, ever since the founding of Troy.
He soon came to a metal door. It was round and barred. The mechanism was clever and it could be opened from both sides. Achilles groped for the metal spoke that held the door in place and shifted it. With a clang the door popped open. Here the air was fresher and smelled more of earth. Curiously Achilles walked through. It was dark in here also but he moved on anyways.
He walked and walked and walked. He was amazed that the tunnel was so long. In here, the going was harder, as the floor of the path was uneven and bumpy, and the walls were jagged. Once or twice he bumped his head on a low part of the ceiling. The path was gradually sloping upwards, he could feel it in his steps. He felt sure he was heading up, maybe outside, as these kinds of emergency tunnels usually led outside, safely beyond the city walls.
Finally there was a sliver of light in front of him. He headed towards it eagerly. He wasn't claustrophobic but he was getting a bit sick of the small tunnel, having to bend every so often to wiggle through some tight spots.
He reached the end of the passage. On top of his head was a square frame of light, which he assumed was an opening. He pushed it open with ease. This door wasn't barred. He shielded his eyes as sunlight flooded in. He hoisted himself up above ground again. It was wonderful to breath in a lungful of sweet, fresh air again.
Achilles looked around him. He was by the river, the same one that he had taken residence beside for the past fortnight or so. Eager to explore, Achilles probed around the area. This must have been the secret way out of the city! Briseis and the others must have escaped here. He looked around, scrutinizing the area for clues. Then he found them, footprints, faint but still recognizable, imprinted into the soft earth by the bank of the river. There were lots of them, concentrated, rushed.
Wait a minute...He froze suddenly as realization hit him. He peered into the distance. There, there it was. Not two hundred yards away from where he was standing was the spot that he had spent his first nights out here! Which means that when he had collapsed from the mare, Briseis was only paces away from him, moving away with the crowd. Clearly she had not seen him lying in the grass. And he had not seen her because he was out cold!
Oh how fate played with them! They were together and then broken up again. They came within an inch of another reunion, yet they had not rediscovered each other. Achilles still stared in amazement. But he knew, it was pitch dark that night and their people had been intent on escape, on survival. She would not have had any time to look around. She would've had no reason to at all. He was dead to her. She did not know.
"If it takes me a life time to find her, I will." Achilles vowed to himself. He was onto his mission with a vengeance.