Chapter Text
From my birth I had been told stories of the prophecies proclaiming my glory. Achilles, swift footed, a god among men. My father was Peleus, the King of Phthia and husband to the goddess Thetis, my mother. She had been a prize to my father, and it was a fact she quite clearly loathed. Despite it, it was made quite clear that I was an exception to her contempt of the mortal world, blessed with impossible grace and skill. She had made it known to me from the beginning that she expected me to live up to the title of Aristos Achaion, and to join her side in godhood when the time came.
My father raised me on stories of his adventures among the Argonauts, spending hours by the fire in late evenings while I hung onto every word. It was not just myself and my father, however; I grew up alongside the other boys he fostered who grew to call our kingdom home. Despite being an only son, I was never lonely in halls abundant with the sounds of laughter and play. I often found the others crowding around me at meals, clamoring for scraps of attention. In my memories now their faces blur together into an incomprehensible streak.
My mother had chosen a life back in the sea when I was young, but came to me often on the frothy shores of Phthia to instruct me in my trainings, and to scorn those other boys I was among— lesser than mortals, unfit to mingle with a god among men. When I had grown old enough, I began private lessons to hone my skills. No one was to fight against me, save my father for his occasional teachings. It was clear to me by his pursed lips every time we sparred that he knew as well as Thetis that my skills had far surpassed even those of a hero’s.
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I was young, newly grown into boyhood, when we travelled to the home of King Menoetius. I was among the youngest, and the others seemed to tower over me with gangly limbs and height I had not yet grown. It was no matter, for I had trained for this. Anointed with oil and crowned with gold, I understood truly what my destiny was. I had been molded for this from the dawn of my conception.
Under the beating sun I weaved between the older boys, my feet pounding against the dry ground like a heartbeat and sending dust whirling. The world was alive around me and in tune with my every move. This was what I had been born and bred for, and I felt the purpose flow through my veins alongside my blood; innate. I won in the end, as I had known I would and had always been destined to do. Greeted with a proud grin from my father, I collected my prize from Menoetius.
Bowing before the king, I carefully took the laurel, which was held by his son beside him. I hadn’t noticed the boy until now, and all at once I found it peculiar that he was not participating in the games. He did not carry himself as a prince. His skin was a deep bronze, although it looked ashen from too much time spent hidden away inside. His shoulders bent and slumped meekly inward so he appeared to be more of a serving boy than royalty. I could not keep the frown from my face. He had significance and a title. Should he not carry himself as such?
I would not have paid him so much attention, normally; but with him in front of me I felt something snap into place that was just as assured as my prophetic glory—he was not an ordinary boy, and this was not the last time our paths would cross. Indeed, he played a much more integral role in my future than anticipated, as if the stars had aligned and the gods had designed him alongside myself, always bound to collide in the end.
My mother visited me often—or rather, I visited her. In the early mornings when the sun cast a rosy glow over the sea’s frothed waves, I would make my way down to the shores and find her. She stood taller than any mortal man I knew and was far more intimidating with stark black hair running down her back, although the torrent winds surrounding her always seemed to soften when I drew near. I was one of the few things among the land she regarded highly.
When I was young she would smooth back my hair, question me how my father was treating me, tell me stories of her home with the other nereids. I could feel her sometimes in the fields, although she never made herself known. I knew she was hovering, waiting for the day I could fulfill my prophecies and ascend to godhood alongside her. She was quite calm in my childhood, and I sometimes find myself missing the days when her visits were simple; a time when the full consequences of my fate had not yet made themselves known to me.
Despite my freedom, and the love I received from my mother and father, I still never quite fit among most. The other boys worshipped me like I was something other, and the servants kept a respectful distance. I had never once had an equal, and I supposed that was what caused my loneliness. I dreamt up silly, childish dreams, as children often do. I dreamt of a partner and of my kindred soul. I thought sometimes in the darkest nights that perhaps a godling did not have his other half; he was meant to exist as one on his own. What a miserable existence I thought that to be.
My father assured me that the gods would not be so cruel as to imprison a man to isolated madness. My mother knew better, but she did not let that wound me. She would say, “Achilles, one destined for greatness will always be alone. But you do not need much more than your greatness to fulfill your purpose.”
In the infinite cosmos of the world I lived in, and in the silent bubble of my home, little peace came to my mind when I thought of victorious bloodshed being my only achievement. What a mangled monstrosity of life it is, to exist in your path. I would not let myself become that vicious creature, I swore to myself. In life, I would be justice, and in immortality I would be demure. Death would not come for me.