Anechó̱

Written by Pavitraa Joshi

Illustrated by Rishika Vora

Blood. War cries. Hoofbeats. Metal clanks. Footfalls. Clarions. Shields thumping. War horns. Blood. Blood. "Ligyron!!"

He opened his eyes to sharp ringing in his ears and an inexplicable ache in his heel. 

Everything around him was painted crimson. His insides burned. Not with the eagerness of vengeance, but with guilt of failure. 

He examined his surroundings. Ashen trees at a distance swayed, still as Patroclus’ lifeless hands. A black river flowed by him, its waves echoing a rhythm hauntingly similar to Patroclus’ lyre. He looked away. The Underworld did not deserve to be compared to Patroclus.

He rose to the bleak landscape, glaring at him as if accusing him of all the lives lost. And maybe he was to blame. Patroclus had believed in him, and Ligyron had failed him. If it weren’t for her…

“But you did kill Hector. And you were magnificent.”

A soft, comforting voice filled the air. Briseis. He turned to face her. He wanted to question her presence, but he knew too well to ask. 

“Even the Kings who called you unworthy could not stop praising you. Aristos Achaion, they said. Best of the Greeks. You could have done no wrong, Achilles, you were never meant to.”  

“Then why do my choices haunt me?” he whispered. “Why do I look for a saviour– when I know there is none? I close my eyes, and I see only his lifeless form. Only ruin. All because of Vanity.”

He collapsed, knees hitting the ground. 

“It is fate, Achilles. Mere mortals sacrificed for the greatest warrior the Earth has known. And Patroclus was never worthy of you. He dimmed your legend.” Her voice turned sharp.

“You were always meant for greatness. Above the mortal glory. Beyond Olympus. Zeus feared you. Because he knew what you were capable of–my son.”

His neck snapped towards her at these words. Thetis stood gracefully, where Briseis had once been, smiling at him with faux motherly affection. 

“I should’ve known. Briseis would never speak of Patroclus like that.” He muttered bitterly, averting his gaze from the goddess. 

“I never wished for greatness, Mother, nor did I seek Zeus’ throne. But Vanity left me no choice. She was the reason Patroclus died, and he must be avenged. And I will make her pay. As I made Hector pay. Like the Trojans would have, I must make things right. Vanity must fall.” 

“He says he never wished for greatness.”

The voice was lower, rougher. 

He turned. Thetis was gone. In her place stood his father, Peleus. He looked older, as if unmet expectations had etched deeper scars than any enemy could. 

“I lived for it. I killed for it. I wedded a goddess for it, for a son like you. Fame. Nobility. Power. It is in your blood. You are Achilles. You are either glorious or nothing.”

He clutched his head. Thoughts ran wild, like soldiers fleeing before him. His mind frayed. He drew in a sharp breath. He recognised this deception; he had spent years captivated by it, mistaking it for purpose. But now he knew. 

He had waited long enough to face her. He was surprised she had dared to come to him. He looked at Peleus.

He would finally get his revenge. 

“Vanity.” He whispered. 

A cloud of fog engulfed Peleus' frame. A quiet, almost childlike giggle echoed in the deserted valley, followed by a shrill cry of peacocks. She appeared, sprawled languidly on his travel throne, draped in a tunic eerily similar to his. At her feet lay a collection of jewels and dismantled, bleeding stone statues. A mirror was clenched tightly in her hand, reflecting her exquisite beauty like Spercheios’ water. The other turned a sword in a calculated weaving pattern.

His breath hitched. A fresh wave of rage engulfed him as his eyes fell on a lyre lying carelessly across her lap. Patroclus’ lyre. 

“You have made a mistake coming here. Thinking you could still trick me. You do not control me. Not anymore. I am free of you. And I shall rob you of existence. And then, glory shall be mine.”

“It is almost tragic. Even in death, Achilles, you reek of me.” She adjusted herself to face him, the mirror casting a meek glow as she placed it on the arm of the throne. She pinned him with her piercing gaze. 

“I did not deceive you, I only showed you the truth. When you blame Vanity, do you blame me or them? They gave you pride. I gave you glory. Briseis stayed silent when they insulted you. Your mother abandoned you. Peleus smothered Ligyron to forge Achilles. No one stayed true to you but me.

Not even Patroclus.”

“You whispered his death in my ears. You made me send him to the battlefield. I recognised my foes too late.” 

“His death has changed you.” She spoke sincerely. “He abandoned his pride for grief, they'll say. But between us, Achilles, what made you turn against me? Was it grief?” She stood up. The lyre tumbled to the ground. “Or jealousy?” 

“Born of a father’s glory, nurtured by a mother’s pride. You have fed on praise your entire life, and you blame me?” She walked towards him and threw the sword to the ground. 

“Take your glory then. But remember this, without me, you are vain.” 

He sat unmoving, his eyes fixed on the sword as if he were living every life that it took.

“What is Achilles without glory, anyway?” The ghost of a smile danced on her lips. 

He turned away from the weapon. 

“What is Achilles without his grief, anyway?” He whispered, almost to himself, as he strung the lyre.