Page 114 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“She seeks your help—the queen of Sparta.” Odysseus tilted his head, studying him more closely. “She’s the only one in Troy who’d dare to seek you out.The only one whose servant you’d spare.”
He remained silent.
A hard exhale, then Odysseus stepped closer. “This is grave, Achilles. She’s the entire reason we are here.”
Achilles scoffed then, rain sliding down his jaw as his head tilted. “Menelaus came for his pride. Agamemnon came for Troy’s conquest. We both know this.” His eyes flicked past Odysseus to the distant city. “She’s a captive in a foreign land. Of course she seeks deliverance.”
“And you would risk your life for hers?” Odysseus’s eyes gleamed with skepticism.
Rain pooled on the sand, carving paths back to the sea.
“Is that worse than dying for Agamemnon’s conquest?” Achilles asked. “As you said, death comes for us all. Every man here will fall for something.” He paused. “Patroclus died for glory. Hector, for his homeland. Thousands more for kings they never knew.”
The names hung in the air, shades now watching from the Underworld. But he could almost feel it again—the warm weight of Patroclus’s hand against his back. A wordless anchor. A steadying force that held him.
Achilles shook his head, a jagged breath leaving him. “The Fates do not choose gently.”
Then, meeting Odysseus’s gaze with clear eyes, he said, “My death was always here, in Troy. We both know that I walk toward it.” A pause. “Let it be for something more than ash and ruin.”
Wind and rain stole the silence between them.
Odysseus didn’t reply, didn’t dispute it. There was no need. The truth lay plainly between them. His jaw tightened, the weight of war etched in the furrow of his brow.
Finally, he shook his head, a weary motion. “The poets will call you mad when they sing of this.”
Achilles turned his gaze to the sea’s dark, endless waves. “Let them,” he murmured. “They will sing of it all the same.”
Chapter 43
The wind whispered mournfully, twisting across barren fields, rattling the withered stalks. Though the summer sun blazed overhead, the air carried winter’s bite.
Zeus strode through the desolation like a storm made flesh, his scowl darkening with each step. Beneath his feet, brittle stalks crumbled to dust, the lifeless land stripped of its bounty.
At the heart of the ruin stood Demeter.
Her fingers trailed over the skeletal remains of the fields, stems that had once been heavy with golden grain. Her radiance, once as warm as summer, had bled to spectral gray, cold as the glacial peaks of Hyperborea. Goddess of the harvest, now a wraith of famine and withering grief.
Without a sound, Zeus appeared behind her, his presence thickening the air like a storm about to break.
“How long will you neglect your duty?” His voice was low, thunderous behind its restraint.
Demeter did not turn. Slowly, she curled her fingers around a handful of dead wheat, crushing it to dust. “This is only the beginning.” The words were hollow, an abyss of cold, echoing fury. “Soon, Olympus and mortals alike will know my grief... and my vengeance.”
The heavens rumbled a warning that echoed through the dead earth.
“Careful, goddess,” Zeus growled. “Remember who you threaten.”
Demeter’s lips twisted, bitter as aconite. “How could I forget?”
At last, she turned. When her eyes met his, they burned—not with fire, but something colder, more terrible.
“My memory is long, Zeus,” she said softly. “I remember how you seduced me in my youth, planted your seed and abandoned me for yourqueen.” Her mouth tightened with disdain. “Just as you abandon our child, leaving her to darkness.”
The air crackled around Zeus. “She is not a child, Demeter,” he said, voice hard as stone. “Persephone has not been a child for many ages. You cling to an illusion that suits you.”
“Kore is—”
“That is not her name!”
