Achilles receives a new prophecy that promises he can rescue his beloved companion Patroclus from the underworld if he can kill 1000 evil men...
Inspired by My Chemical Romance - Demolition Lovers
We are in the ninth year of the blood-soaked Trojan War. The breathtaking Helen has been stolen away by the treacherous Trojans, and the Achaeans have gathered to honor their solemn oaths.
I am Achilles, son of the goddess Thetis and the great King Peleus. To say I am the finest warrior of my age is not boasting; it is mere truth. The Achaeans know they cannot win this war without me. Yet I have long since withdrawn to the shadows.
King Agamemnon has robbed me of my rightful prize, the red-cheeked Briseis, and thus insulted my honor. From the shoreline, I hear it all — the desperate cries, the clashing of spears, the anguished deaths.
The Trojans have breached our walls and reached the ships. The flames that devour the sky rise from our burning vessels. We are on the edge of ruin, and though I could end it, I have sworn I will not.
Into this storm of despair rushes my dearest companion, Patroclus, eyes wide with horror. “They are dying,” he pleads. “You must do something. Achilles, please!”
If it had been any other matter, I would have obeyed his voice without hesitation. We grew up together, trained under the wise centaur Chiron. Patroclus — so gentle, so wise — knows I cannot fight. Still, he begs. And though it shatters my heart, I cannot break my oath.
Then he proposes another way.
He will wear my armor, and march onto the battlefield as if he were Achilles himself. By the mere mention of my name, the enemies would scatter in terror. I swear him to caution, weighing the value of his life beyond all treasures.
I cannot — will not — lose him.
The thunder of cheers and battle cries deafens me. Patroclus’s plan has worked! As I wait, the seconds stretch endlessly, each heartbeat dragging eternity behind it. When the Achaeans return, my heart nearly stops.I push into the throng, seeking him, praying. Too late, I realize. The crowd parts to reveal a body lying still and broken.
I would have chosen to be blinded or burned alive rather than see what lies before me. The scream that tears from my throat shatters the air.
I clutch his ruined chest against mine, my tears mingling with his blood. I see nothing, hear nothing but the endless howl of my soul.
I try, gods know I try — after all our shared adventures, we were meant to be together forever. But now, there is nothing left for me to do. My hands fall useless against his bloodied skin. I stare into his lifeless eyes, sealed shut by death's decree.
Oh, Patroclus... My friend, my soul's companion. Time loses all meaning. Seconds stretch into days, and days into endless nights.
My mother, Thetis, comes to me, trailing a coldness that numbs the air. “He made his choice,” she says, reaching to wipe my tears away.
I pull back from her touch with rage burning in my veins. She never loved Patroclus. She has no right to speak of him now. But she did not come only to grieve — she bears a prophecy.
"Patroclus’s soul is trapped in the Underworld, a prisoner of Hades himself. There is but one way to bring him back — you must kill a thousand evil men."
993... Achilles didn’t even glance after the spear that flew from his hand like a bolt of lightning — he knew it would strike true. And it did.
994... He showed no mercy to anyone in his path, fighting with a blood-crazed ferocity, all the while keeping careful count.
995... Another Trojan fell.
Truthfully, Achilles despised this bloodshed, this endless horror. But it would soon be over. He had swum the oceans of sorrow and now was at the very edge. Perhaps it had taken years, but to him, it was worth everything. What drove Achilles to such relentless fury?
For countless years, the bloody Trojan War had raged on. Victory had swung between the two sides like a pendulum.
At first, the Achaeans had held the upper hand — until Achilles, slighted by the greedy King Agamemnon stealing his rightful prize, withdrew from battle. The Trojans surged forward. But now, with Achilles' wrath returned to the field, the tide once again favored the Achaeans.
996... With a mind as sharp as the tip of his spear, Achilles pressed onward, driven by one searing memory that never left his eyes.
997... Tears blurred his vision, though he scarcely noticed.
998... The end was near, so near he could almost taste it.
999... His heart thundered in his chest, a wild storm of anticipation. Only one remained. One last soul to complete his grim tally.
"Hector!" His cry shook the heavens and the earth, a roar that split the skies.
The mighty Trojan warrior, Hector, his equal in strength and skill, fled in terror. He knew he could not outrun Achilles forever — but if he could just reach the river, divine aid awaited. The rivers of Troy ran swift and fierce.
Hector dove into the icy waters. Achilles followed, the current twisting around them both. Too late Hector realized the trap: the river god Scamander, enraged by the blood of countless dead men, sought to drown Achilles in his fury.
Achilles fought back, driven by his sacred purpose. He was not alone — Hera and Hephaestus intervened, halting Scamander’s wrath.
At last he cornered Hector, pinning him against the walls of Troy. Hector gazed at him with acceptance.
“When you kill me, grant that my body be returned to my family. Let me have honor in death.” Achilles’ eyes flickered to the spear Hector clutched — the very weapon that had slain Patroclus.
“You speak of honor,” Achilles spat, voice shaking with grief and rage. “You, who butchered him with these very hands! I will tear your body apart as a lion rends its prey!”
A wetness streaked his cheeks — only then did he realize he was weeping. No. Now was not the time for sorrow. Now was the time for the end.
One final strike, and his destiny would be fulfilled. It was the ninth year of the unrelenting war. After the second Trojan assault, they had broken through the Greek defenses, burning their ships, shattering hope.
Merciful-hearted Patroclus had knelt before Achilles, tears streaming down his face. “They are dying... You must do something. Achilles, please!”
They had grown up together, trained together under Chiron. Patroclus — dearest friend, truest soul — had always held Achilles' heart.
The flames devouring the ships tore at Achilles too, but an oath was an oath. He could not break it.
Then Patroclus had an idea: he would wear Achilles' armor, take the field in his name. The very sight of him would terrify the Trojans. Achilles had hesitated, but at last he agreed, after stern warnings to be cautious.
Patroclus was beyond precious to him — he could not, would not lose him.
The sky thundered with cheers as Patroclus led the charge. Minutes dragged into lifetimes as Achilles waited. When the Achaeans returned, he plunged into their midst, heart hammering. He drew nearer and nearer... Gods!
Better to have his eyes torn out, better to burn alive, than to see that lifeless body on the ground.
The scream that ripped from Achilles' throat seemed to rend the heavens:
“Patroclus!” He pulled the torn body into his arms, tears mingling with blood. Nothing else existed but his grief. He tried to call him back — oh, how he tried — but the silence was absolute. His hands trembled against Patroclus’ blood-soaked chest. He gazed into those closed eyes, forever sealed by death. Oh, Patroclus... Friend, beloved companion.
Time and place meant nothing anymore. Seconds stretched into endless days.
One day, his mother, Thetis, came to his tent. The icy chill she brought said everything. Achilles burned within, a flame fed by boundless sorrow.
“He made his choice,” she said, reaching to wipe away his tears. Achilles recoiled from her touch, seething. She had always despised Patroclus — what right had she to speak now?
But she came with a prophecy from the gods. "Patroclus' soul is trapped in the Underworld, held captive by Hades himself. There is but one way to free him — you must slay one thousand wicked men."
Only one remained: Hector.
The very armor Hector wore had been ripped from Patroclus’ dead body — armor that had once been Achilles’. It did not fit; his throat was left exposed.
Achilles aimed for that vulnerable spot. He would strike. He would fulfill the prophecy. But remember: no prophecy had ever been wrong.
When Hector fell, the countdown to Achilles' own death would begin...