To all my readers:

Eight months is way too long a hiatus. I sincerely apologize for it. There was work, family, yes, all the demands of the "real world" over the life of an adult. But I admit that wasn't the only thing. As I said from the beginning, I have the structure of this story completely set and I will bring it to the end. But I did go through a rather uninspired stretch. Whenever I tried to write, words just didn't flow. The story was getting to the climax of the Iliad and I didn't want to disrespect what I consider as one of the greatest books ever written by approaching it with less than my best. So I took an (admittedly very long) pause. I "punished" myself for it by not writing anything else during this time – well, that wasn't just punishment, it was therapy. After all, the idea was to get me hungry to write again.

It worked and I'm back, absolutely famished for some writing and hopefully in good enough shape not to insult Homer and the Iliad.

Hope you can all forgive me and enjoy the rest of the story. :)

Warning: This is getting to the darkest part of Achilles' story. And there's no denying there was quite a lot of darkness in him. If you don't like him very much in this chapter… well, you have reason to.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

The eagle landed back on my windowsill. There are thick crusts of blood on its beak and talons, its dishevelled feathers are standing on end, making it look even bigger and fiercer than it already is, its eyes shine a fiery yellow, so bright as if they were a pair of newly filled oil lamps.

But at the same time it somehow seems frailer than I ever thought possible. It doesn't pant – I don't think birds ever do – but it's oozing exhaustion in every brittle movement, in every blink that veils the bright yellow glow for half a moment, in the way its head tends to lower itself to the height of its shoulders.

It's scarier than it's ever been, but it's also the first time I realize it's vulnerable - just as mortal as any other creature.

o – o - o

My grandfather used to be a warrior. A fearsome one, by all accounts, and apparently that fearsomeness had seeped into his life even after his warring days were over. Even as a child I could feel that everyone was more than a little wary of him. My very father, his firstborn and sole male heir, tended to give him a rather wide berth and the relationship between the two always seemed somewhat strained and mainly ceremonious. Stories about his temper abounded, and even admitting they were probably exaggerated, there was no doubt that everybody – family, friends, acquaintances, servants – went out of their way to avoid triggering his wrath. The exception were his former army comrades. They were the only ones who seemed to be completely at ease around him, and with whom he seemed to be able to truly relax.

Another exception were his grandchildren. Perhaps because we only ever knew him as an old man, we always found him to be tolerant and even patient with us. One thing, however, even my brothers and I knew not to do: ask him about the wars he had fought. Not that he became aggressive toward us; he simply refused to answer and shut himself in a dark silence that would last for several days.

Once, however, at my eldest brother's coming of age ceremony, I did work up the courage to question him about it. He remained quiet for so long that I was already about to apologize when he turned to gaze at me straight in the eyes: "War can bring out the most remarkable qualities you didn't even know you had. It gives you brothers that will always be closer to you than even the ones that share your blood. But it can also make beasts out of men. No one can say he's safe from that. I hope it never happens to any of your brothers, or to the man you take as your husband."

I was deeply intrigued and not entirely sure I understood what he meant, but he was already shutting himself off, so I didn't dare ask any further. Now, however, those words kept haunting me.

As expected, Agamemnon had restored me to you the morning after Patroclus' death. Not that he needed to in order to get you back to fighting: that day the Achaean camp awoke to your heralds calling everyone to council. When the kings were gathered – and the slope crammed with soldiers who'd come to watch the proceedings – you opened the meeting stating that you were going out with your men to destroy Hector and the Trojans, and requesting your allies' help to do so. Agamemnon, not wanting to look as though he had lost all initiative, and perhaps because he too had learned something from all the grief the Greeks had suffered, responded with a public apology to you and the immediate handing over of all the things he had promised you through his ambassadors two nights before.

Among those things was my restoration to you. With my heart beating wildly in my chest, I rushed back to your camp as soon as everything was settled. I knew that what awaited me there wasn't the happiness I had longed for during our forced separation, or even the explanations I had spent so much time anticipating, but the sorrow and pain of Patroclus' passing. Still, it meant I was coming home and in the face of the tragedy that had befallen us, that was all I really cared about.

You needed me, Iphis needed me and I needed you both as well.

Or so I believed. Iphis did need me, there was no doubt about that. She was a wreck, sitting by Patroclus' body, staring blankly in front of herself and shaking from head to toe. We held each other in an endless hug, then sat together, still with our arms curled around each other's shoulders, and allowed our tears of loss and mourning to flow.

My own need, both for her and for you, was equally undeniable. While trying to comfort Iphis, whose grief went immeasurably beyond my own, the depth of the friendship we shared became more apparent than ever and I found I too was finding comfort in it. Important as that was, it did not make up for my craving to be with you, to cry with you, to try and soothe the pain I could feel radiating from you like ice in the most bitter of winters.

But you wouldn't let me near. Neither me, nor anybody else. You had sunk into your grief and seemed to wish to drown in it. You refused all comfort. The only thing that would spark any life in your otherwise dead looking eyes was the prospect of revenge.

And revenge you took. Shortly after the council was over, you marched out at the head of all the Myrmidons. This time, not one single man stayed back at the camp. The Achaean army followed en masse and, led by you, wreaked havoc amongst the Trojans.

It was a massacre. You manoeuvred the army so that they managed to trap the enemy against the river, then proceeded to slaughter every Trojan within reach, with the Myrmidons and the rest of the Achaeans following your example with a vengeance. The bodies piled so high the river burst over its banks, flooding the battlefield and, as I later found out, nearly drowning you.

The terrified Trojan survivors fled to the city, chased closely by the Achaeans, and sought shelter behind its impregnable walls. Hector alone remained outside. The responsibility for the crippling defeat his army had suffered weighed heavily on him and, brave and honourable that he was, he wanted to face the Nemesis he knew was coming for him.

Still, when you did catch up with him in front of Troy's Scaean Gate, panic overwhelmed him and he ran. Poor Hector! Seeing you closing in on him, covered in blood from the battle, your teeth bared like an animal's and your eyes glinting madly in rage, he must have known without a shred of a doubt that he stood no chance. It takes a special kind of heroism to be able to face the inevitability of one's own demise and, in the end, Hector proved he had it. The fact that he began by caving to his fear only makes it that much worthier of admiration that he eventually stopped and turned to face you, in spite of the knowledge that you would only leave there with his life.

And that's exactly what you did. You speared him through the throat, then stood there watching him die before the eyes of his family, while the Achaean army rejoiced wildly.

The reason I know all this is that you told me yourself. But that was later, much later. Back then… well, you weren't speaking much at all.

Now, for all the cruelty and brutality of it, all these things were to be expected. It was war, after all, and Hector had proved no less ruthless in his attack on the Achaean camp and ships. It was the way of warriors and everything that had been done still fit within the boundaries of clean and fair fighting.

What came next, however, did not.

You pierced through Hector's ankles, like some particularly cruel slave masters do to the slaves they deem more rebellious, then threaded a rope through them, tied his body to your chariot and paraded him around Troy, dragging him through the dirt. Afterward you dragged him back to the Achaean camp the same way.

When I saw you arrive like that, I was gripped by a sudden overwhelming feeling of revulsion. I'd never heard of such a brutal display of raw hatred. I also noticed that even your fellow kings, though clearly happy with the crushing victory you had achieved, seemed to be somewhat wary of you. They addressed you with a sort of restrained respect and tried to give you quite a bit of space.

I searched your face, hoping to find something there that might help me explain it all away, but all I saw was a thick, dark mist of madness veiling your eyes. That's when I began to remember my grandfather.

You ate with the other kings, then came back to your own camp and sat down with us by Patroclus' body. You looked drained and still deeply sombre, but the strange madness of before seemed to have receded a little. I breathed in relief. Maybe you were just still in a haze of violence from the battle when you'd come back and now you'd slowly return to normal.

I wanted very much to talk to you – no, I needed to talk to you, to hear your voice addressing me, to feel us sharing in the same grief and helping each other through it – but there was something about you that discouraged any attempt at an approach. A kind of colourless, frosty aura that warned potential trespassers to keep well away.

You were wallowing in self-created loneliness and wouldn't allow anyone to break in.

So we sat in silence for the better part of the night. Finally, exhaustion got the better of you and you fell asleep where you sat. Iphis, who was on her second straight blank night, had also succumbed to fatigue and was sleeping fitfully against my shoulder. I was dozing off myself when you started thrashing and moaning desperately in your sleep.

I disentangled myself carefully from Iphis, then slid over to you, shook your shoulder gently and called softly. "Achilles. Achilles. It's alright. I'm here. It's alright."

Your arms shot forward abruptly, making me jump back, startled, and you let out a piercing scream. Then your lids flew open and you gazed around, clearly disoriented. I put my arms around you, rocking you like a baby, and repeated my mantra, "It's alright, I'm here, everything's alright."

Little by little, your eyes became focused again. You stared at me for a moment, then shook your head and said curtly: "No, it isn't."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It isn't alright. Nothing's alright at all."

We both looked at Patroclus. There was a short pause, then I said:

"It's terrible, yes. I feel it too."

You shook your head again. "No, you don't. You have no idea."

I swallowed through a lump in my throat. In a sense you were right, of course. As much as I cared for Patroclus, it was still a far cry from the multitude of bonds you and him shared.

"I saw him yesterday morning." Had it really been only yesterday? "At Nestor's. At first he looked like he wanted to tear me to pieces with his bare hands, but then I told him the truth about what I had done and he…"

"I know", you cut in. "He told me."

There was another pause, this time longer than the first one.

"And?..." I asked at last.

You didn't turn to look at me. "And what?", you asked back.

I struggled for words. "Achilles… everything… all those things I said to Antilochus weren't true. Nothing ever even happened with Agamemnon. He tried, at first, but I resisted and then Menelaus intervened. I never betrayed you in any way."

You shrugged. "It doesn't really matter now, does it? I betrayed you, in every way possible."

The worst part weren't even your words. It was the flat, hollow way in which you spoke them.

"You betrayed me?"

"I let you go, didn't I? I didn't even look at possible ways to fight and I downright refused your suggestion to run."

I breathed in. "Yes, and I must admit that I badly wanted to make you suffer for it. As a matter of fact, there is still a lot of anger and bitterness in me. But I do understand why you did it."

At long last, you turned away from Patroclus' corpse and looked straight at me. Your eyes were cold, terrifyingly cold. "I also betrayed you in the other sense. I took a mistress the night I got your message through Antilochus."

Words deserted me. I stared blankly at you, struggling to make sense of what you'd just said. But you went on, your voice now filling up with self-loathing:

"I betrayed you, and then I betrayed my countrymen by abandoning them to their fate. And then I sent the best, the closest, the most loyal of friends to his death. I was trying to evade my own fate. But I will not try to evade it anymore. I was the one who was supposed to die here and, for all that is sacred, I will. I sure as hell will!"

There was madness in your eyes again, and it was even more frightening than before. Because now it wasn't burning. It was freezing.

The very ability to feel seemed to have deserted me, along with all words ever known to mankind. I slumped back on the bench, both my body and my soul numb to the core.