One Last Time - Apollo and Anastasia

One Last Pyre

Anastasia

It was the late hours of night, As I walked to the camp of the greatest Greek warrior. The others had perhaps already reached the place where the bodies were to be burnt, with Alexanders at the top-most, as Achilles wanted it to.

"It is finally time." I spoke, in front of his camp, as he got ready inside. I saw him put on his robes as I straightened my own. I was mostly the first woman in all of Achaeans, that would have stayed alive this long in a war without being a slave, and having the rights to stand next to the one who strikes a pyre. My robe was a sleek white, with gold sewn amongst its ridges. It was flowy, but managed to crop before my elbow, and flowed on the ground. I had my hair in a simple braid, nothing like a warrior, but a normal human. I had golden laurel leaves above, and the embedded gold on my hands.

Achilles walked out, nothing like me. He was the one who truly mourned over Patroclus, more than anyone in the entirety of the Achaeans. He mourned over Patroclus like a human mourns over themselves. He had also worn a similar robe as mine, the same shade, the same gold sewn. But his eyes were blood red, his lips dry, and his face a pale yellow, one I had never seen on him before. His hair was down, revealing its true length till its owners shoulders. Achilles had an unhealthy habit grown over him, one of true rage whenever someone came towards him and striked anything about the war. So far, the rest of us refrained to talk to him at all.

But at days, or nights I must say, I used to walk over him, hoping that he would try and talk with me, talk with me about his lover, or perhaps, anyone. But I only saw him in deep sleep. His lovers dead body next to him, his hands over Achilles's head, in a position as if one would have thought Patroclus was striking his hair comforting him of the days war as he always did. I would leave as soon as I reached. At moments, I would hear Achilles screaming for him at a random hour in the night, and I would run back to his camp, but would find him crying on Patroclus's chest as Briseis tried to comfort him. I again, left as soon as I reached. 

Perhaps, I did not know what to tell. Or perhaps I was never good at speaking words of comfort to the ones who grieve.

 Achilles walked in front of me as I followed. "I apologize to make you wait for so long," he spoke, as we finished the small distance and reached his pyre. It was above all, body covered with wood and stacked on a platform high in the moonlight. I was always in denial of his death, perhaps blamed myself with the piece of cloth stained with his blood I wore on me every second. If only had I been a few minutes early, a few minutes faster than ever before, if only had I had the strength to surge through the roaring of men, I would have gotten there, before Hector impaled him with his spear. I knew deep inside, Hector never meant to, but perhaps no one could ever escape the games of the fates.

Achilles got on the platform, as I handed him a torch. I backed away, as Achilles struck the pyre with fire. The fire spread, slowly over the entire body, as I heard crackling sounds of fire all over. I stood alone, in the front, as the one who had got the body to safety. Achilles's face was lighten up by the light of the fire, changing and altering his shadows every second. His tears were shone under the heat and light, as I doubted he ever felt them falling down his cheeks. I almost saw his hands reaching out to Patroclus's body as it melted in the fire, as if to pull him back from the dead. 

I thought of Hector's body in the corner of Achilles's camp, rotting. Would not Priam want his son's body be returned to him? I shook of my thought as everyone stared at blazing fire. No hero was ever happy. All the heroes I had been told the stories of, from the great Hercules, to Jason, to Perseus, none of them were ever happy. History hated lovers, or perhaps it did not. It was only time, who was cruel to end love in tragedy. All I could conclude was as if history itself loved tragedies, dooming all lovers to cruel ends.

At the word of gods, and Thetis, who had blessed her son with his invulnerability, the fire soon grew weaker and weaker until the blazing mountains of plasma calmed down, and all were left were ashes.

Achilles collected his lovers ashes, even if were a women's duty to do so. I kept a golden urn, the best of all infront of him as Patroclus fell in the void of the urn. The one loved by all, the one cherished by the best, was now trapped in a urn for a eternity or longer. I looked at Achilles's face, whose eyes were red and dark, face sulked with grief and lips whimpering, dreading for mercy. I realized of how lucky I was, to be outlived by my lover, so I would never have to face his death. But at the same time, I was selfish to think so. He had gone through so much, all his love ended in tragedy. Would I become a goddess, or would I be left in an golden urn under my tomb? And if so, how would Apollo grieve over my death?

"Everyone!" Achilles called out, as he held the most precious of treasures in his hands. "Once that my life ends in ashes, once I would be remembered as dead, I want you to mingle our ashes in the same urn that he lies in. That is all I ask." I felt the coldness grew larger in his heart, from so far, as he walked down with the urn close to his heart, almost hugging it as if it was Patroclus himself. Achilles walked down where he had come from, the same road, but his heart heavier with dread. For almost a second, I felt as if a beautiful aura floated around him. A soul refused to let go by the one who loved them so well.

I felt a body walk beside me, a tall body as me, built similar to mine. I immediately recognized the son of Laertes, who slowly spoke. "Even the gods cannot wholly defy fate," he spoke, "but mortals are given a gift that is not ours: the power to love freely, to give meaning to what is beyond control. Strange how the fates are, are not? They let them together, let their paths mingle even in the worst of times. And at the end, pride took over his urge to think-"

"Do you blame Achilles for the death of Patroclus?" I questioned, perhaps my tone harsher than I hoped it to be.

"Never," he softly spoke. I had noticed one of this man. As a warrior of the Achaeans, he was so similar but so unique, his words chosen defiantly to one's thoughts. "How could I ever? I blame pride herself, for as to she is the one who had always begun the rite of tragedies."

As his words settled over me, the sorrow and weight of the night melting into a quiet understanding. How could this man always choose the truest words, never faltering in his wisdom? If I could choose how to love, how to live—even in the face of tragedy—then perhaps there was more to this journey than what the fates had spun. Perhaps, like Achilles, I could honor those I loved, not by succumbing to grief, but by bearing it as a tribute to the life they gave me. I closed my eyes, letting the cold night air fill my lungs, and felt a quiet sorrow settle over me.