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The Fate of Troy
From the top of the Scaean Wall you can see the true extent of your destruction. Sure, you didn't kill the men of Troy with your own arrows but their blood was still on your hands. A permanent, crimson red etched into your memory. You could feel the people's hatred with each pointed glance, no matter how quickly they dropped their gaze in feigned deference.
You see Achilles charging towards the city walls. Your city. Towards the people your very existence cursed to fall. The people who time and time again you decided meant less to you than your own survival. But now he's coming - the perfect image of the imperfect, bloody mess that is war. The air grows cold.
Achilles needed to die.
Maybe a month ago, you were perfectly content to stay in your chambers, far from the war - but you couldn't forgive what he had done. You couldn't erase the image of your brother's scorched bones being lowered deep into the cold, uncaring earth. Even if you wanted to see him you can't. The Greeks would cut you down - your body paraded as gleefuly and sadistically as Hector's had been.
You doubted your father would weep as he had then.
You wondered if the people of Troy would take up a cry of celebration in place of the usual lament. After all, the shorter your life, the longer theirs. But you couldn't risk clouding your judgement with dwelling on the countless 'what ifs'. You're running out of time.
You steady your grip on your bow, nocking the arrow into place. The bowstring trembles in time with your shaky breaths. You cannot fail. Not again. Not after all you've lost. Your hand tightens around the bow, your knuckles white.
You let out a whispered prayer and close your eyes. Warmth envelops you, the kind of empty, shallow heat that leaves you fearful of the return of bitter winds. You bite the inside of your cheek, focusing on your weapon with single-minded intensity. Your hands steady and your breathing slows. Your heart's beating out of your chest. He's surely passed the gates by now, surely your arrow will be buried in the dust. You let go anyway. You don't need to open your eyes to know you struck. His death tasted as bittersweet as the blood in your mouth.
As the Greeks start towards the walls, resolute, you know - your fate is fufilled.
Troy has fallen.
You see Achilles charging towards the city walls. Your city. Towards the people your very existence cursed to fall. The people who time and time again you decided meant less to you than your own survival. But now he's coming - the perfect image of the imperfect, bloody mess that is war. The air grows cold.
Achilles needed to die.
Maybe a month ago, you were perfectly content to stay in your chambers, far from the war - but you couldn't forgive what he had done. You couldn't erase the image of your brother's scorched bones being lowered deep into the cold, uncaring earth. Even if you wanted to see him you can't. The Greeks would cut you down - your body paraded as gleefuly and sadistically as Hector's had been.
You doubted your father would weep as he had then.
You wondered if the people of Troy would take up a cry of celebration in place of the usual lament. After all, the shorter your life, the longer theirs. But you couldn't risk clouding your judgement with dwelling on the countless 'what ifs'. You're running out of time.
You steady your grip on your bow, nocking the arrow into place. The bowstring trembles in time with your shaky breaths. You cannot fail. Not again. Not after all you've lost. Your hand tightens around the bow, your knuckles white.
You let out a whispered prayer and close your eyes. Warmth envelops you, the kind of empty, shallow heat that leaves you fearful of the return of bitter winds. You bite the inside of your cheek, focusing on your weapon with single-minded intensity. Your hands steady and your breathing slows. Your heart's beating out of your chest. He's surely passed the gates by now, surely your arrow will be buried in the dust. You let go anyway. You don't need to open your eyes to know you struck. His death tasted as bittersweet as the blood in your mouth.
As the Greeks start towards the walls, resolute, you know - your fate is fufilled.
Troy has fallen.
