Chapter Text
The Achaean poets would sing Norton’s name for eternity, the prophecy says. He would die fast - a star falling down, crashing and burning almost too quickly for the human eye to see but with a legacy that would surpass humanity. The Achaean poets sing about a warrior with a scarred face, child of god and man, bathed on the Styx and blessed by the sea and the tides - whose feats would be known even after Olympus fell, even after humanity was no more, forever etched on the throne of heroes.
He used to love that prophecy.
He used to love his own choice - certain that living like a spark but being remembered for eternity was the best course for him, enamored with the idea of being the best of the Myrmidons, the one to rule above them all even on death, bathed in riches, on glory, the most skilled of the Achaeans, their most ferocious warrior, the one to put and end on war.
Pointless.
Pointless is all Norton can think about, as he holds a quickly cooling body against his, his pain and fury heard even on the most distant corners of the battlefield - scream too inhuman to be attributed to a demigod, the howl of a mortally wounded animal too close to death, loud enough to reach the Tartarus, to earn a pitying glance from Hades himself, a sad shake of the head from Thanatos.
Norton could feel the way the gods observed his grief, his pain, his anger, their eyes too prying to go unnoticed by one of their own.
He hugs Naib’s body tighter, head burrowed on his long hair, tears straining the bronze armor of his best friend, his lover - now a corpse, his mind unhelpfully supplies him, all treacherous words and venom. He hugs Naib closer, he cries to all Ilios to see, to all Achaeans to witness. He cries to the gods above and below, the anger of the tides on his voice, the force of the sea carried on by his tears.
Pointless is existence without him.
Time lost meaning - how many hours had he sat there, crying over a silent battlefield? How much had he screamed for the gods above and below, how much had he shook the skies and the underworld with his pain? How far away his agony had been carried away by the winds, heard even by the spirits at Elysius, carried to the Tartarus - rivaling even the worst screams of the most tortured souls.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
It’s his fault, it's his fault, Naib is gone and he is to blame, it’s his fault, it hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS.
Norton could feel his heart stop when the hand laced into his starts to feel colder, even more unmovable than it already was.
He sees red.
“WHERE IS HE?” Under the silent battlefield, achaeans and Illios horrified at such a raw display of grief, Norton finally snaps.
“WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?” his voice booms until it reaches past the gates of Troy, ricocheting on the secluded walls, thundering over the towers. Inside Illion, mothers would hug their children, covering their ears so they wouldn’t hear such horrible anger. Animals cowered in fear, man would accept their destiny under Norton’s spear.
In that moment, every Achaean, every Illon knew.
Norton would burn Troy to the ground.
Surrounded by silence and terror, Norton slowly stood up, gently laying Naib’s corpse on the ground, a loving hand ruffling the blood-covered hair, closing his eyes so Naib wouldn’t have to witness his ruthlessness, his bloodlust.
Deep down he knows Naib would disapprove - Naib would hate to see the way anger thrums on his veins, would hate to see the crazed look on his eyes, the way his teeth are bared, akin to a wild animal.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it HURTS.
He would make them pay. He would make the gods regret their existence. He would make the Illions cower into his presence. He would rain blood until he could find him, until he had taken Jose’s head as his prize, served on a silver platter for the Achaeans to feast.
Either they killed Norton or Norton killed them all.
The butt of his spear hits the ground once, twice, bronze against the stones below resonating on the battlefield - the myrmidons, his comrades in arms, more than willing to fall behind him, to drown Troy under their rage.
No stone would be left unturned if Norton had any saying on it, he would gladly lose his place on the Elysius if it means avenging Naib’s death.
“You,” he points a finger at William, ignoring how horribly his hands tremble in front of the king, hard enough to make goosebumps rise under his armor, the spear ready to slip out of his hold. “I need your carriage. And someone we can trust.”
“Norton -” the king of Ithaca’s voice is raw, so full of pain and hurt that Norton stops for a second, “are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure about anything,” Norton refuses to look into William’s eyes, instead gazing into the sky, hoping the tears would stop falling. “Besides of how much I love him.”
“There will be no going back from here Norton,” William tries again, hand resting on Norton’s shoulder, eyes swimming with pity, pleading. “He would chew you alive if he knew you’re so willing to throw your life away.”
“That’s the thing,” Norton barks a laugh, cynical even to his own ears. William winces slightly at how broken he sounds. “He is not here anymore. So why does it matter?”
William doesn’t have a good answer for that.
“Just… You’re a king. I need a carriage to bring him back. He deserves better than staying here.”
‘So do you,’ William can’t help the bitterness sweeping over but, instead, he keeps his mouth shut.
“I will make sure he is back safe and sound.”
Instead of answering, Norton kneels next to where Naib lays, gently kissing the cold cheeks, the forehead, his lips.
“I don’t think I will be back to see the end of the war,” he whispers against Naib’s hair, stroking the strands before standing. “but I will be back to you soon.”
He would make sure to finish what Jose had started.