Chapter Text
Sing, O Muse, of Neoptolemus, son of Achilles,
The young lion that followed the shadow of his father
Whose sword bore vengeance and glory
Bringing the fall of Troy
Neo was not grieving per say. He had only known his father when he was young before he was whisked away to fight in the Trojan War. From then on it was stories about his heroic deeds, his father the Aristos Acheon, the great soldier who brought terror and fear with him where ever he went. He would hear stories about his areté and would think of how these stories about his father would be told for centuries to come. His Kleos would live long past him there would be epic poems about his father the swift-footed Achilles who beat the Trojans, saved Helen and came back to his son. At least that’s what he used to think.
He was constantly compared to his father. Trained with a sword and long spear the second he could grip them properly. He was pretty good at it too, quickly overpowering his trainers with the skill and ferocity he inherited. Every action and decision he made compared him to his father. Hades his name compared him to his father, new warrior. He much preferred what his father called him Pyrrhus. He insisted it did not mean fire but to show the connection between his and his mother’s red hair. Now he likes both interpretations, his fiery hair and to keep the flame of his father’s legacy.
The news of his fathers death was surprising but not unexpected. Short life, Eternal Glory, Long Life, Obscurity. Neo was not surprised with what came next either, Odysseus was here to take him to Troy. To be the new Aristos Acheon. To be the new Achilles. Neo did the one thing he was trained to do his entire life, he said yes.
So no, he was not grieving. More along the lines of idealising the father he wished he had, whose legacy is now his to bare.
That brings him to now staring at the walls of Troy, that used to be a symbol of power and strength but now are adorned with smoke and blood, in his father’s armour. Armour that is just a little too big, the damage from when his father wore it is still present. Just as his father once did he too will wear them with pride and honour. He stares with disdain at the walls, specifically the prince roaming inside. The prince who started this war, the prince who killed his father. He wants nothing more than to have his revenge on him.
“Lad, daydreaming is not going to bring your father back.”
Just as Neo was going to draw his sword he recognised the hard, powerful but caring and somewhat concerned Odysseus.
“What do you need son-of-Laertes.”
He said meeting the soldiers eyes. “No need for that nonsense, simply refer to me as Odysseus or commander if you must call me something.” He said, exasperated. “Now we are in need of your counsel for the next ambush. Accompany me back to camp?”
He gazed into the sharp, bright eyes of the soldier who took care in telling him of his father’s passing and Helenus’ prophecy. The soldier that escorted him to Troy and helped him reclaim his father’s armour. The soldier who is the closest thing he truly remembers of being a father figure. Not that he would ever tell Odysseus that. The man behind the armour who truly might be the person who cares for him most this side of the Aegean Sea.
”Seriously lad, we have to get going. Walk with me and share what is on your mind.”
With one last look to the cities walls, he turned back to Odysseus. He will breach these walls and avenge his father, even if it is the last thing he will ever do.
Above him an eagle flew to the palace as the young soldier turned on his heel and started the journey back towards the camps.
Sing, O Muse of Astyanax, child of hope and ruin,
Son of Hector, shield of Troy and doomed Andromache.
Born to a city aflame,
and crushed by the weight of innocence and love.
Astyanax could still hear the screams ringing in his ears. It had been a month since the day where Troy’s Prince, a son, a husband, a father. Was killed and his body was mercilessly decimated in a show of aidós from the supposed best of the Greeks and put on show around the walls of Troy. He can still remember his mother’s wails how King Priam pleaded for Hector to not go through with standing up to Achilles. How Priam held him back from the walls so he could not see what happened to his gentle but powerful father, the shield of Troy.
An eagle swooped upwards and broke his thoughts. What is Neoptolemus son of Achilles and Odysseus of Ithaca doing by Troy’s walls. Today was supposed to be a day of peace, to bury the dead and to mourn. Both sides honour this day of peace. Neoptolemus, his proclaimed enemy, son of the man who killed his father. Astyanax knows it is his duty to get revenge for his father by killing Neoptolemus. Nothing is stopping him now, all he has to do is pick up his bow and fire. A straight target, he knows he is strong enough. It is his piety holding him back. This is a sacred day, this truce has been carried out since the start of the nine year war. If he were to break it now, who knew what bloodshed would concur.
He stepped back from the window, afraid of what might happen if he looked out for a second longer and started wandering around the palace. Everyone was holding their breath. Something was on the horizon, everyone could tell. This war dragged on for almost 10 years, it must come to an end soon. Only one side can win this war and he will fight until there is no spirit left in his body.To think this all started because of Helen. Sweet Helen who was as beautiful as everyone said. Who favoured Astyanax since she came to Troy with Paris. The woman blessed yet cursed with divine beauty.
Astyanax paused at the sound of footsteps echoing through the empty corridor. Helen emerged, her face serene yet shadowed by sorrow. She looked at him, her gaze as piercing as the arrow he had nearly loosed.
'Do you think it will ever end?' she asked softly.
Astyanax hesitated. 'It has to.'
'And when it does, what will be left of us?' Her voice wavered, but her eyes held steady. 'You are Hector’s son. The shield of Troy. But shields are made to break.'
The silence was heavy as she backed out of the room to walk the halls. He stood at a standstill as the words clung to him. Astyanax turned the corner but she was already gone.
He wandered the sad empty halls. Helen was wrong, she had to be wrong. This war would end and that would be it. No more fighting, no more death and Astyanax would be with his mother and grandparents. He would reluctantly take the crown that was his birthright and be married off to some princess of his mother’s choosing. He would, he had to.
He turned into a less familiar part of the castle and was hit by a large mass.
”Uncle, Deiphobus I did not see you there.”
Your mother is asking for you,” Deiphobus said, his voice low but firm. “It is time to stand with your people. Even on days of peace, a prince cannot linger in the shadows.”
Astyanax met his uncle’s gaze, the weight of expectation pressing on him once more. “Do you ever wonder if it’s worth it?” he asked. “All this fighting, all this death?”
Deiphobus hesitated, his battle-hardened expression softening for just a moment. “Every prince wonders. But it is not for us to decide what is worth it. It is for us to endure it.”
With a heavy heart, Astyanax nodded and followed his uncle. The halls seemed darker now, the distant eagle's cry echoing faintly in his ears.
The eagle calls. The gods are watching. The threads of fate are cut.