Short Fiction

           The blood was oozing out of every crack in his bronze chest plate; he could barely breathe let alone walk. I threw him upon my shoulders disobeying his commands. It was like a dream, the flames, the death, the curdling screams, the bodies strewn about, the weight of my friend and mentor bearing down upon my shoulders. Julius awoke me from my daze, “Marcus he must live! Retreat to the camps, run my brother!” I broke off into a run, almost a gallop with all of the weight upon my back, like a wounded horse expending its last breaths. I could not stop. I would not stop. The burden of Atlas could not have halted me.

            

             "Marcus let me die!” he said again and again between his gurgles and bloody coughing fits. I would not listen. I dabbed his wounds, and stood in awe before the numbers of them across his torso, some from arrows, others from blades. He writhed in pain grabbing the back of his leg which bored a massive gouge traversing from ankle to knee. The cloth I had used had become an absolute red, like the finest silk.

            

           “How does he fare?” said Julius after returning back. I told the truth, “I fear the Magus Sisters will give him no quarter. He is fading.” Never before had I seen a man’s will shatter by the mere utterance of a few words. Julius stood back in awe, and then fell to his knees. Julius pounded the sand, his fists burned with rage, contempt, and anguish as did his tears. It spread like disease amongst the men; there wills toppled like the columns of a temple one after the next. Before my eyes were ruined men with broken spirits and I was one of them.

           That tent haunted my thoughts. I paced through the camp speaking with and consoling the men. Respect called me to it, respect for the man I had always admired, the man who’d shown me the way of the blade, of the warrior, the man who’d lay dead upon red sheets of silk. I pushed aside the curtain and entered the tent. It was black, the candles I had lit were doused and their aroma absent. Before I could begin to think where his body had gone an arm wrapped around my neck bringing me to my knees. “I live brother” he whispered to my years, in a weak yet stoic voice. “These wounds will never heal, I am lame now. You Julius will rise in my stead. Take these men and restore their spirit as I have time and time again, lead them into battle.” He released his grip and told me his choice. “This night I will take a ship and set sail for another life, I must leave this one behind for I can fight no longer. Tell the men I was slain, that you pushed my body off to sea into the arms of Poseidon. I only ask I go down in history as a warrior, nothing more. May my final hours not be tainted in the books of tomorrow.” I answered his last wish and gave him my thanks for the years and the battles we shared. That very night he slipped into the darkness. I could only stand and watch as the once Great Achilles faded away into the depths of the sea, into the annals of history, and into the hearts and minds of millions to come.