Perseus: Excidium Troiae

Twenty-Three

ACHILLES barely noticed as he trudged back into the Greek camp. His heart and hands heavy, the warrior Prince barely glanced up as he made his way through the camp and towards his own tent. It was nighttime, ending another day of endless fighting and useless death. Specifically, Penthesileia's. He absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, his mind barely registering the screams and wails of agony which pierced the air as he passed the medic's tent.

So much death, so much carnage.

Had it all been worth it? Had all of this been worth the glory and the fame he had craved for so long? The death of his best friend, the betrayal of his lover, his murder of the Amazon Queen and even his own impending departure from Earth. Ever since his mother's stunt at the Styx—making him invulnerable, thinking she had outsmarted the Fates—it didn't take brains to know his life would not be easy. He had known the cost of this glory he sought and he had come anyway. Maybe he was stupid, and his mother had been right. Perhaps he should have stayed on Phthia. Things would have been different.

Patroclus would still be alive.

But he would not have met Briseis. Even though she had betrayed him, he had loved her. He had fought for her.

He would not have made friends.

He would not have had the opportunity to fight alongside and against the greatest heroes of their age. He would not have crossed swords with a fierce warrior queen who had tempted him with her danger. And the fates were cruel for making it play out like it did, but that was just how it was.

He was here now. He was going to die soon. And then it would all end. All the pain and the loss and suffering.

As he passed a small campfire, he made a turn, shaking his head and mumbling to himself, "Oh, Penthesileia. If only things were different—"

Achilles heard a chorus of laughter. His head moved up slightly, and his feet slowly drew to a stop. There were men—soldiers—seated around the flames, eating from bowls and roasting something on a spit. Fish, probably. That was all they seemed to eat these days.

"The whore queen?" One of the men spoke. He was looking directly at Achilles. "That was one powerful duel, man. That bitch had it coming, I'll say."

"What?" There was whistling in his ears. Achilles frowned at them.

"I mean, really. Bloody brilliant, you are! She's killed a lot of us, see. Everyone who's ever fought her died. But then she couldn't resist. She wanted to have a taste! A whore, even on the battlefield! The stories about all those Amazons are true. We saw her, y'know. Mouthing the Hades right off you. Probably aching for a good poun—" Achilles had had enough. He did not know how or why he reacted the way he did. His blood rushed to his head and the Prince drew his sword rapidly, slashing upwards.

"Penthesileia was a million times the warrior any of you could ever hope to be." He let out a scoff before turning on his heel as the now headless corpse collapsed to the ground. Shouts of outrage erupted behind him. But Achilles did not care. He continued to march angrily towards his tent, heart pounding in anger. How could that nobody disrespect the dead Queen in such a horrid way? He deserved to burn in the darkest parts of Hades.

But, a voice reminded him, he had also dragged Hector's body—a Crown Prince—around Troy and refused to give it back.

Achilles was the worst type of man there was. A hypocrite. There wasn't a big difference between them at all. This war, and everything it had come with...it had tainted him. It had turned him into a monster; and corrupted his soul. There was no salvation for him. It hurt that he had not seen it happening sooner—that he had let it happen. The Prince of Phthia sighed as he finally saw his tent. Phoenix stood guard outside, ever the loyal soldier. The son of Thetis did not miss the way his eyes moved to the bloodied blade, then back to the Prince's face. Achilles smiled slightly at him as he passed, although he was sure it looked more like a grimace. In the past decade, this man had been his father, his advisor and his friend. Phoenix knew him, maybe even more than his actual father did. Achilles paused as he opened the tent flap.