The next week passed quickly, lost in the daily routine of a soldier. The endless monotony of eating a training, broken only by the sharp laughter and good cheer of his men.
By now, the word had spread, and soldiers flocked to Achilles in droves to congratulate him, sure of Petrol’s success. The show of support warmed Achilles, making the world brighter for an instant before a familiar weight batted it down.
Being with Helena had awakened something within him, and the shadow of a long dead child haunted his dreams, demanding him to repent for what he had done, scorning him for what he had become. For the dreams he had cast aside. He fought back of course, lashing them with rhetoric and arguments, but he was quickly flagging, wondering if the shadow was right.
It was a hard truth to face, admitting he had been wrong for so long, but with the promise of Helena’s return, he felt like he could face it, if only for her.
The next day, it happened. A messenger appeared, carrying a small wooden trunk. He claimed to be from Amaj. Immediately, his men assembled the grand tent used for parleys, and decked Achilles in a set of ceremonial armor, bronze carved with pictographs of men slaying monsters. When the messenger entered the tent, he found the full attention of Achilles and all his senior officers, decked in full war regalia, focused on him. It was an intimidating sight, and to the messenger's credit, he only trembled slightly before setting down the chest, and with a shaky motion, popped it open.
Petrol’s severed head lay within.
“Hector, Prince of Amaj, sends his regards.”
The world froze as Achlles gazed upon the severed head of the man that had fought with him since the beginning, the man he considered a brother. The man he had killed with his selfishness. The dreamer was smote underfoot by reality's brutal reminder, and Achilles retreated within himself, donning the persona of the cruel general he had been forced to become.
It took significant effort not to smote the poor messenger on the spot, but even in the depths of his cruelty, Achilles couldn't quite shake the compassion that had once defined him.
“Leave” he whispered, his voice at once devastatingly quiet and earth-shatteringly loud.
The messenger practically ran out of the tent.
Achilles got to his feet, toppling the throne he had been lounging on. As he approached the chest, he shed layers of his armor, until finally, right before it, he wore nothing but a simple wool tunic and trousers. With reverent care, he gently lifted Petrol’s head from the chest, unheeding of the tried blood that crusted it. He held out a hand and was met with a wet cloth. Slowly and gently he washed his brother's face, watching the once white cloth turn red.
When he was done, he cast the cloth aside and left the tent, his officers forming a silent procession around him. The rest of his men, warned of what had happened, formed a path, guarding either side. They saluted Petrol’s head as he passed.
As Achilles’ right hand man, he had been well loved.
When they reached the end, a funeral pyre had already been prepared, burning in a massive conflagration. The rest of the procession stopped, but Achilles continued forward, walking into the flames themselves. It was a strain, invoking his invincibility to defend against flame itself, especially since he had to protect Petrol’s head as well, but he endured, climbing the mountain of burning wood, even as his clothes burned and the end of his hair curled.
When he reached the top, he paused, turning to look at the crowd of silent men watching him. His gaze swept over them, seeming to meet the eyes of every single man, communicating what could not be said, before once more resting upon Petrol’s head. With deliberate care, Achilles closed his eyes, and with a final kiss upon his forehead, placed him at the zenith of the massive funeral pyre.
Then, without looking back, he walked out of the fire and headed to his tent.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
—---------------------------------------------------------
Hour later, as he finished the last of the logistical reports, Achilles was interrupted by a head poking through the tent flap. It was Gaius, another of his trusted captains. “General!” he saluted, his curly golden hair bouncing as he whipped a salute over his green eyes.
“At ease. What is it?”
“The troops are ready to march.”
Achilles looked up, a frown on his face. “Where?”
“Amaj.”
“We aren't going to Amaj. Losing Petrol was a blow, but I will not let anymore of my men die in a pointless struggle for revenge.”
“If not revenge, then love. We can finish what Petrol started. Make it so his death was not in vain.”
Achilles sighed. “Gaius, it's over. It’s not worth it. I will not lead my men to their deaths.”
Gaius’ eyes were burning. “My general, we cannot just give up!”
“And yet we must, if we want to live another month.”
“And what if we don’t? What if we are sick of trampling our desires underfoot, in favor of survival? What if we want to live instead of just surviving? Some of the men remember you when you were younger. Even as a child, you inspired us, encouraging us to seek out our dreams, instead of just bending to reality. Follow your own teachings!”
Achilles reached up to message his temples. “That child is long dead. Now-”
“No”
“What?”
“You may tell yourself that, but we know better. We have seen you sacrifice time and time again to protect us. We have seen you put your life on the line for the lowest of us. We have seen you walk through fire to put us to rest. We know the flame of passion burning within you, no matter how well you think you hide them. We know the dreams contained within, waiting to be freed. Why must you deny yourself like this?”
Achilles rose to his feet, his voice rising. “Because Gaius, those dreams will lead us to ruin, to death!”
“Then will it not be a death well earned!?”
“I cannot chose such a path for my me-”
“Then let us choose! We owe you our lives a dozen times over. We too feel the weight of these everlasting pointless wars! So for once, let us choose what we fight for!”
Gaius stopped, panting heavily.
Achilles was silent, shocked. Choice…
“Please,” Gaius begged, “For once, let us fight for something we believe in.”
He remembered Helena’s words. I just want to choose for myself.
He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling the weight settling upon his shoulders, and at the very same time a heat flaring within his chest. “Very well.” He walked up to Gaius. “And thank you.”
He opened the tent flap to reveal rows of soldiers lined up in front of it, their armor gleaming in the sun. He looked over them, wondering how he had managed to inspire such dedication and loyalty in them. There was so much to say, so much so that he didn’t even know if it was possible for words to express it.
So he didn't use words.
He tilted his head to the sun, letting it soak into his skin as he drew a deep breath.
Then, with a roar that seemed to shake the ground, he drew his blade and thrust it into the sky, as if to pierce the firmament of heaven itself.
His men answered as one, and their roar truly did shake the ground.
For a long minute, they held their voices loud enough to rouse the dead, before the roar petered off and silence once more beheld the camp.
For another long moment, he looked over them, converting everything he wanted to say through a glance. Then with a nod and a wave, the men began to prepare.
They would leave in the morning.
—----------------------------------------------------
The march was long and boring, but Achilles could feel a heat burning within him, growing with every step. His aura grew, his momentum surging.
In the shadows, a long dead hand reached out.
And Achilles took it.