Page 68 of Where Darkness Bloomed
He had closed his eyes, a harsh breath blowing from him.
Then, more firmly, she said, “He cannot stay. He does not belong to this world anymore.”
“I know.” And it was the truest thing he had ever said.
Thetis had turned then, laying her hand on Patroclus’s brow. A final mercy—stilling the decay. A gift not for the dead, but for the shattered heart of a golden-haired boy long lost.
Achilles had prepared the pyre.
That night, the flames had risen high above the beach. Wood, oil, linen and bone. Fire roared into the sky, a furious thing, as if the gods themselves mourned.
Achilles had stood before it, his hair shorn close, the blood dried beneath his nails. In his fist, he had held the last of it. A single lock, once golden, now dull in the firelight. He had pressed it to his lips, then curled it gently between Patroclus’s lifeless fingers.
The flames took it. Took everything. And with it, something inside him, sacred and mortal, had turned to ash. The last part of him from boyhood. The last piece of him that remembered laughter, that knew mercy.
Gone. It had risen with the smoke.
Now, outside of Troy, the clang of metal shattered the stillness as Achilles struck his sword against his shield.
“Hector!”
His voice carved through the hush, grief reborn as wrath.
“Hector!”
It reverberated against the stone walls, echoing into eerie, watchful stillness.
A groan answered from within the walls. Then, the slow, grating scrape of wood.
Achilles’s gaze snapped toward the gates. Slowly, they creaked open, revealing a lone figure silhouetted in the morning sun.
Hector stepped through with a shield on his arm, a spear steady in hisfist. His dark hair was drawn back, save for a rebellious strand brushing his brow. But he ignored it, his gaze on Achilles.
Behind him, the gates rumbled shut.
Achilles stood motionless, waiting. Only when the doors slammed with a resounding thud—sealing Hector’s fate—did he stir. His gaze rose, calculating and cold.
Archers lined the walls, bows ready, waiting. They might cut him down, but not fast enough. He would strike faster. He would kill Hector if it was his last act in life.
His gaze dropped, and Achilles studied the Trojan, marking every detail. The balanced stance, the poised grip, the tension thrumming beneath the mask of calm—all telling of an experienced swordsman.
Then he moved, striding forward slowly.
Hector held his ground, letting him approach.
When Achilles was close enough to see the pulse thudding in Hector’s throat, he tossed his sword into the dirt. The bronze struck the ground with a hollow clang, a funeral toll. His shield followed, landing with a dull, heavy thud.
Hector’s eyes narrowed.
Achilles gripped his spear, then drove its point into the earth. Leaning forward against it, he gazed at Hector with storm-dark eyes.
To his credit, Hector did not flinch.
“I did not know it was him,” the Trojan said at last. The words were steady, but regret dragged their edges.
Achilles’s face was impassive, empty as the corpse Hector had left behind. “You do now,” he replied flatly. Hollow.
The silence turned brittle. The wind stirred the banner over Troy. Somewhere above, a soldier shifted.
