Freedom.
What an interesting concept.
It was that thing towards which all beings strove, for which kings and emperors had fought wars, over which brother could kill brother; an ideal for which entire countries could rip themselves apart.
For freedom, however, the opposite must exist, for nothing can exist without its opposite; there is no light without the dark, no good without evil. There was no day without the cool blanket of the night, no soothing breeze without the oppressive heat which it broke.
Freedom, truly, was the ultimate good.
Then why, pray, could he not feel it?
Why was it that he found himself a prisoner in his own mind, that the slate upon which the drawings of his soul were inscribed was clouded and dirty, that the wide and open plains of his Achaean home proved to be oppressive, folding around his neck like a garotte wire, his breath caught in his throat.
Why was peace now worse than war?
His life had been spent at war; his character hidden behind a mask of violence, each action honed to a brutal perfection, for he bore the flag of the Myrmidons. Precision was his life, and the lives of his brothers. His purpose was war; each breath inhaled a waste of time on the battlefield. The war in Ilios had robbed him of what might have been, a decade of youth and exuberance ripped from his grasp, and yet he could not help but think of his brothers.
Their souls rested, now, on the great fields of Elysium, where they were truly free, where there was no confining weight of mortality braced upon their shoulders, no delicate balance of responsibility to bear.
The epiphany was glorious.
Every movement was weightless, every colour so much more vibrant than ever it had been before. Power rested all around him; dormant, like a sleeping bull, and yet taut with potential, straining at every fibre of this mortal façade with the eagerness, the enthusiasm of a thousand horses, each straining at the harness by which they were bound.
Freedom was, in itself, glorious.
It was simply there, water leaking through a dam, and despite all that one's mortal desires could do to constrain it, it was there, so present, simply awaiting the mortal who realised that it was there to be grasped.
He smiled, the warmth of the sun warm upon his face, the soothing cool of the wind caressing his form like the gentlest of lovers, the grass beneath his feet a carpet worthy of a king.
Nature itself sang to him, and he embraced it.
Freedom, that ideal towards which mortals strived, against which Kings and Emperors had thrown money and material, was not an object, but a journey, and he had taken but the first step.
He smiled, because before him was spread out the truth.
He smiled, and turned for home.
A/N
Another completely random oneshot, again loosely based off the Trojan War, and again loosely in a style that I'm vaguely exploring. This basically me keeping myself entertained when I get bored of revision, because if I work on something more permanent, I won't stop, and that isn't exactly useful with 3 weeks of exams. That being said, the next chapter of Waning Moon is progressing well, about halfway through - you'll get that as normal as soon as it's done.
The oneshot is about optimism and seeing the best in everything, if it wasn't obvious already.
Until next time, then, and hope you enjoyed,
Sol
(I don't own PJO)