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A Sky Without the Sun

So of course my first post on this account would be some sad shit. Spoilers of you have not read Song of Achilles or the Iliad I guess? But they have both been out for quite a while so...

Words: 1453

Trigger warnings: Death, loss and grief, violence, blood

Achilles wakes. Eyes swollen and burning from the torment from the night before. His hands slide across the bed, only to find the cold blankets lay flat beside him. He knows what he is searching for, but to speak it would be to twist the fiery dagger that has made its nest inside his stomach for the past three months. Achilles glances over to his blades, as they rest near his unused armor. 

He would slash his throat now, if only his limbs were not so heavy. The magic of his lover’s presence has now been replaced by the crushing weight of his absence. 

Such things, the mighty Achilles never thought he would feel.

There was a comfort that came with the thought of dying first. When Achilles was told of the rest of his prophecy, he had imagined his bronze-skinned lover standing over his funeral pyre, watching the flames wash over his body, watching his ashes be collected. 

Patroclus will live, he thought, I would only have to wait for him. 

And how to continue on now? When more of this life has been spent loving him, being loved by him, than being without?

This was his own doing. Achilles brought them here. All for a distant love he would never be a witness to, by people he would never meet. 

There would be other wars. He would fade from history like a scar would; never as bright, but still there. 

Now, he would not mind not being remembered at all, if it meant never having to know what this pain is like, losing the other half of your soul. It is the moon without the stars; the sky without the sun; the ocean without its waves. 

How foolish he had been, to choose something so fleeting, while immortality laid within his grasp each night. 

He thinks of his eyes, deep brown that turned to honey in the sun. His curly brown hair that would tickle Achilles’ nose when his lover’s head rested on his chest. The soft fullness of his lips, the shape of them. His thought of his voice, his laugh. 

Achilles groans as he stands. The thick clumps of what was left of his hair were tangled, unwashed. He pushes them out of his eyes. He no longer bothered with the armor any longer. 

As he leaves his tent, the remaining myrmidons avoid his gaze. He feels their disgust, even their pity. But he no longer cares. He feels the light breeze run over his skin as his men walk ahead of him. 

They ready themselves for the Trojans on the journey there, while Achilles stays in the back. The days no longer stand out to him. He wakes, walks to the walls of Troy, steals the life of men who have never offended him, and then he returns to camp, to have another loveless night.

The Trojans wait for them when they arrive, and the Greeks are ready. They shake their limbs as they begin their formation, clattering their spears against shields, and then begin to run. 

Achilles feels the blood hit his skin as his sword cuts through skin and muscle. Men shout and race around him, sweat dripping from under their helmets and from the ends of their hair. Achilles moves on instinct, wishing everyday now that someone was faster than he was. 

Just like every day, the Trojans go back behind their walls, gates closing heavily behind them. The bodies of the Greeks are collected, carried by the men who used to call them friends. Blood soaks in the earth around them. 

As they leave, Achilles watches his feet move beneath him, then he hears it. The stumbling and preparation of man enraged. He looks to his left, to see Paris. He prepares his bow, pulling the arrow tightly back. Achilles sees a bright light just behind him, it braces over Paris’ shoulder and spreads along his weapon.

Achilles’ hand twitches, death is so close to him now. He imagines touching his lover once again. To interlace their fingers as they brace the underworld together. He closes his eyes, humming a song he used to play on the lyre to his lover. 

The arrow pierces his skin, and it burns as it winds its way into his chest. With what little air he still has left, he laughs. It’s quick and frantic, but he could not stop himself. He feels his legs growing wobbly, his hands let go of his weapons, they fall onto the dirt beside him.

His vision begins growing dark, He thinks of his lover, pulling him into his arms and holding him for hours. Suddenly, his knees hit the ground.  

Patroclus, Achilles would have said it aloud if he could, Patroclus Patroclus Pactroclus… 

Achilles is hollow. He does not cast a shadow in the sand, the grass does not yield to his steps. He can not feel the sun on his skin. No one can hear him when he speaks, when he reaches out for them he passes through them. 

Has this where his lover has been trapped? Guilt fills him once again, but he shakes his head, pushing all of it out now. It will do him no good to think about such things now, when it will so soon be fixed. 

He craves the dark, he craves his lover. He knows it will not be long now. 

“I have come to take my father’s place.”  A red haired boy calls from a distance. Heads turn toward him, the sea of men part the way before him. This was the only way Achilles knew where he was in the camp. 

“I am the son of Achilles.” Achilles does not believe this. Though he has never met his son, he always imagined if he had, that he would know it. He would feel a longing in his chest pulling toward him. But this boy, Achilles felt nothing for this boy.

He tells the men his name, and watches as he sits in the seat Achilles once did. He speaks of the caves where he used to live.

Where Achilles would have lived, if his mother had it her way.

“We are discussing where to build his father’s tomb.”

“On the hill,”

“A fitting place for them.”

“Them?” There is confusion in the young man’s voice.

“Your father and his companion, Patroclus.” The dagger twists, and Achilles longs for their reunion. To hold his lover again like he used to. 

“And why should this man be buried beside Aristos Achaion?” Achilles stiffens at the disgust in the young man’s voice. 

They explain to him Achilles’ wishes, but the boy’s expression does not change. He seems unaffected by the men. 

“I will not allow my father’s fame to be diminished. The monument is for him and him alone.” Achilles’ ears ring. He is dead. He has been disconnected from his body since that moment. But this? 

This form of disconnect causes his body to stiffen and his mind to float. He watches the breeze ruffle the boy’s, no, his son’s, hair. He feels nothing but hatred toward him as he continues to march through the camp that Achilles once did. 

It does not take long for the men to begin carving out his tomb, Achilles knows he has little time. Achilles is panicking. He is running amongst oblivious men, he is screaming, “This can not be for nothing!”

He begins pulling at the clothes of the men as they dig. He screams until he is so hoarse no sound escapes. His fists pound the sand, but it does not move to him. 

As they begin burying the urn, he races to the shore and calls for his mother. He has not spoken to her in months, but he calls for her like a lost child would. She never comes. 

And now, he collapses onto the sand, curled in a ball. 

Achilles feels his feet begin to slip into the earth. He grabs at the land around him, but it slips through him, like a stone thrown in a river. 

“Please,” He cries, “Mother! Please!” He slips into the ground before he can say more. The darkness absorbs him. He cannot feel, but he would assume it was colder down here than it was above. 

He completes his journey in a blurr, not daring to move. He reaches a large open cave, with, Achilles assumes, the river styx flowing through a winding line just before him. 

Achilles is frozen once more, kneeling on the sutt below him. It would have stained his skin before, but now it does not. 

Charon waits in his boat, and Achilles truly knows now, it was all for nothing.