Chapter Text
Scamandrius was dreaming of the Monster again. Unlike the various perils he’d encountered in his childhood, this Monster didn’t have a name. Just a whisper of terror, a blank-eyed bronze-bright visage topped with a mane of bloody red hair.
He had some version of this nightmare often. Less as he’d grown older, but at least a few times a month. He always found it odd, how this was the subject of his nightmares. Not the blood-soaked eye of Polyphemus, or the towering face of Poseidon in a furious storm, or the glimpses of the Underworld he saw through the ship’s portholes despite Eurylochus telling him not to peek. Not the six heads of Scylla snuffing out six torches and the light that held them. Not the dead look in Odysseus’ eyes as he raised a sword to his second in command…
These eyes were also dead. Staring straight at him through a haze of red fog. Time and time again Scamandrius had tried to look within the darkness, searching for something he could recognize. But every time, the only thing he found was yawning blackness.
How many times have you looked at this face? A deep, imposing voice rumbled all around him. It made Scamandrius stumble. There had never been any voices in his nightmares before now.
Well, we can’t fault you for not remembering, the voice continued, accompanied by the screech of a falcon. You were so young during the war in Troy.
Troy… the place of his birth. He didn’t remember much about it other than what Odysseus told him about it. A city on the hill overlooking the sea, framed by rivers and protected by mighty walls. A beautiful place. A dead place. He would have died too, if not for Odysseus.
Oh is that what you think? the voice responded to his thoughts. The red fog that surrounded them receded, showing more detail than Scamandrius’ imagination could have mustered. A bloodied field, the Monster backed against a giant wooden gate. Why don’t you take a look at what really happened?
As if Scamandrius was no more substantial than the fog, another armored figure barrelled through the space his dream body occupied. His bronze armor shone like the sun itself, and the diffuse light of the fog glinted off his intricately wrought shield. Behind him, Scamandrius could hear the snorting of tired horses.
The Monster raised his spear to the newcomer. I will no longer flee you, son of Peleus! he spoke, voice echoing about the empty dream. It sounded… familiar. Like a melody heard long ago, forgotten until one hears it repeated years later. Three times you have chased me ‘round these walls, but now let me either slay you or be slain. Let us pledge before the gods that, whoever dies in this fight shall be given back to our armies for proper burial. Neither of us deserves to be stripped and defiled.
How dare you ask for pity upon your corpse, standing there as you are, in mine own armor you stripped from Patroclus’ back? No, son of Priam. Now you shall pay for what you have done.
The time for words was over. Achilles son of Peleus hurled his gigantic spear, missing Hector by a hair as he ducked the winging shaft. Hector immediately followed with a spear throw of his own, which Achilles blocked with his shield.
Scamandrius watched in awe as these titans did battle. How many times had Perimedes told the story of Achilles killing Hector around the hearth fires of Ithaca? The heroes clashed with swords, spears forgotten on the ground. On and on they fought, strikes of blades ringing against the empty dream. Until, quick as a flash, the point of Achilles’ blade severed the side of Hector’s neck. Glowing red blood arced from the ruined flesh. The sounds of the world faded away as Achilles witnessed Hector’s final words.
Scamandrius watched in silence as Achilles began stripping the armor from Hector’s body. Breastplate, greaves, bracers, and then the dark-eyed helmet. The bloodied face, flopping about on its barely-attached neck, seemed to stare the young dreamer right in the face.
A voice came unbidden to his memory. You look just like your father…
How many times had Odysseus given him these words when he asked about his birth parents? How many times had he listened to the story of his rescue from the depths of flame-scorched Troy? How many times had he looked in the mirror growing up, desperate rouse in himself any memory of his father’s features from the marks they left on his own flesh?
You see it now, don’t you? the deep voice asked, pealing like the thunder. What Odysseus kept from you?
A memory struck him like an arrow from Mnemosyne herself; clearer than it had any right to be for its age. A memory from when he was a mere infant, clasped close to his mother’s breast at the gates of Troy. His young mind seeing the helmeted face approaching not as his father, but of a horrible Monster.
Then another, quick as a flash, of bright points of light piercing a dark cave. The face of Odysseus looming over him, sword drawn, lips moving as if in conversation with an invisible force. Please don’t make me do this…
Don’t you remember, Astyanax?