Chapter Text
Red and gold. A fire, rapidly catching and devouring all around it. This was how he would be remembered once he was gone, I thought as I watched him. They would speak of his armor, glinting bright in the sun. His ashen spear that never missed its target despite the quickness with which he threw it. When Chiron had given it to him, it had been with a thoughtful smile on his lips. I was sure now that he had known what we had been too young to realize then: That, while in anyone else's hands it would have been nothing but a stick with a sharp end, in his it would become deadly. Compared to Achilles, those fighting by his side appeared almost boorish, clumsy. His feet always carried him where he intended, brought him exactly where he needed to be. It was like an intricate dance, the way he twisted and turned before his weapon found its next victim. Another man, consumed by his flames. No one had ever succeeded in predicting his next movement.
Achilles himself had once confided in me that he never gave his steps much thought. We had been younger then, carefree. Though we had sparred like all other boys our age, the idea of war had been far from our minds. Instead of braving the dust of the battlefield, we had raced each other across the meadows of Phthia or scrambled up the steep, rocky slopes of Mount Pelion, only to collapse in laughter once we reached the top. The fire had already been simmering inside him back then, yet where before it had been nothing more than gleaming embers, now it was blazing bright. I had long found that I adored him all the same for it.
As I distractedly dodged another blow from my opponent, Achilles' gaze briefly met mine. It wasn't hard to see, in moments like this, that there was divinity running in his blood. Swift-footed, they called him, Aristos Achaion, the son of brave Peleus and the nymph Thetis. Though she was only a minor goddess, his mother had never failed to induce the utmost respect in me. Her stormy eyes carried all the authority of the untamed sea, and one look from her was enough to cause even the most stubborn man to conform to her will. It appeared this particular ability hadn't gotten lost on her son, who could silence a whole crowd of rowdy soldiers with just one sharp glance. Achilles, now more than ever, held himself with the confidence of a man that could not be touched. But I knew better.
During my years by his side, I had borne witness to some of his most vulnerable moments. I had seen the tight press of his lips when we bid his father farewell before setting sail to Troy. I had spent long nights watching him toss and turn restlessly, plagued by dreams he never spoke of to anyone but me. I had seen how pensive he could be one moment, only for a blind rage to overwhelm his whole being the very next. Achilles was unpredictable, bordering on feral. And yet, despite what the men said – and though his physique remained unblemished – he was not invincible. To me, there had never been any doubt he was more human than god, and I was glad for it. Not once had he hidden his weaknesses from me, and so I had spilled my secrets to him in return. Reluctantly I had told him of the boy I had killed, of the sudden rush of anger that had led me to push him too hard, of the heavy guilt that had been weighing down on me ever since. I had spoken to him of my mother, and the emptiness the loss of her had caused. Of my father, whom I had never been able to fill with pride. I had confided in him about my greatest fears and wildest hopes. There was only one thing I had never told him.
Maybe he knew. Maybe he, too, could recall the day that lingered on my mind so clearly even after years had passed. That morning by the shore, when I had leant into him and pressed my lips to his in a sudden surge of bravery. Maybe he had long forgotten how he had left me there, confused and filled with regret. In the end, he had never brought it up, and I had kept my silence all the same, for fear of what would happen if he discovered the lasting nature of my feelings for him. Though the men often joked about his insatiable appetite, and though Achilles never bothered to correct them in their assumptions, I had never witnessed him taking a lover back to our tent. It couldn't have been a lack of choice - as a prince and the fated hero of the war he received plenty of offers. And yet our nights were typically spent in seclusion, where we would clean off the grime of the day and simply relish in each other's presence before retiring to bed. It was only on the odd occasion that we would join the other Myrmidons by the fire, would share food and wine with them, and listen to their tales. Deep down I knew that, if it had not been for my repeated requests, he would not have thought to trade our solitude for an evening of company at all. Despite his charisma and the Greeks' admiration for him, he seemed to prefer the quiet. Once, caught in a moment of uncertainty, I had asked him whether he minded my presence. "I would not know how to be without you," he had reassured me with a quiet smile, and I had never questioned him again.
I knew that the love I felt for him was the fatal kind, the sort of emotion best kept close to one's chest. Too much of it bared, it would leave only destruction in its wake. For I was drawn to him like Icarus to the sun – if I went too far, my wings, too, would melt. A fall like that, I was positive, I would not survive. Losing Achilles as a boy would have meant losing my only friend and confidant. Losing him now would shake my whole existence. I had built my life around his for as long as I could remember. I had followed him across land and seas, had traded peace to fight next to him without second thought. There had been few days in our past that we had not spent by each other's sides, and so I was accustomed to hearing the sound of his breathing next to me, to waking to the sight of him in the morning. He was the last thought on my mind when I retired to bed, and every night it was him who visited me in my dreams. With a startling intensity I had realized that I no longer knew how to exist without him, either. When he was gone, nothing would be left of me either. And so I was grateful for what I had of him, even though I knew it would not last forever. Still, two threatening words were haunting me time and time again. What if?
Maybe as boys, I often caught myself thinking, we could have been something. It was not unheard of, youths taking each other as lovers, and though he was heir to the throne and I merely an exile, such a bond would not have been frowned upon. Now, as a grown man, I no longer dared hoping for more in fear of tainting his honor. Had I passed as younger, perhaps the situation would have been a different one. Had I served him, he might have considered the possibility. But we had been born only few months apart, and I had risen in rank too much for a relationship between us to be considered in any way appropriate. And so, even though I loved him recklessly, and foolishly craved his love in return, I kept this one secret to myself - both for his sake and my own.
The Trojan in front of me fell to my spear before Achilles had even turned his gaze away. His fire, I had come to notice the more time I spent next to him on the battlefield, did not only burn within himself. It spread to his men as well, filled them with courage in a way words could not. With Aristos Achaion by their side, they were fearless. With Achilles by my side, I recklessly felt the same. Beneath his helmet, I could see his lips curl into a small smile before he turned from me once more, facing the group of soldiers charging towards him. Though in the early days of the war I had been terrified to see him hurt, a fact he never ceased to tease me about even now, I had long since abandoned such fears. While most men had ended up in the medical tent for one ailment or another, he had successfully stayed clear of it throughout the years. None of the blood I helped him wash from his hair at night was his own, because no one could match his skill. I had never been a pious man, and yet I found myself praying to the gods that it would remain this way forever.
Though I knew that the prophecy his mother had given him before we had set sail for Troy was as constant on Achilles' mind as it was on mine, it was evident that he did not experience the same exhaustion at the end of the day as those around him, did not spend each day fearing for his life. In fact, though he had never explicitly told me, I knew there were some aspects of the war that he cherished. Back home, he had never been able to truly show off his abilities. No one had been permitted to watch him train except for his parents, Chiron, and eventually me. While I could hold my own well with a weapon, I had never been able to best him in combat, the outcome of each fight predictable from the start. Consequently, the full extent of his skill had remained hidden even to himself. The battlefield had finally offered him the challenge he had always been craving, and I knew he took great pride in each victory. Often he would speak to me of them, would ask me whether I had seen this or that, would seek my approval and praise. I gave both willingly. Though I did not agree with the fate he had chosen for himself, I knew there was nothing I could do to change it. All that was left for me to do was to support him, to be who he needed – his friend, his closest companion – until the very end.