He awoke with a jerk, that deep rumble of a voice seeming too near, too real. His eyes opened to darkness, and there were a few lost moments of panic where his gaze sought to penetrate the shadows before slowly his vision adjusted, and Achilleas stared up at the wooden hull above his head, remembering where he was.

The scratchy linen beneath him was soaked with sweat again, raising goosebumps across skin that still burned with fever despite how cold he felt. Despite that sensation that he absolutely had not been alone, there was no one else in the small cabin that become his prison and sickbed combined.

His sleep - if it could really be called that - had been fitful and uneasy as the poison purged itself from his body. He’d seen strange things, been caught in feverish visions and yet this...this dream had felt different, and Achilleas could not help but think it was not the sound of water against the hull that had woken him, not the lurching of the ship across the waves.

A ship was not a silent place at the best of times. There was the slap of water against wood, the creaking of ropes and the groan of sails under strain. But now, over and above it all, the only thing he could hear was that echoed “Do Better.”

How many times had he heard such words? The sentiment was hardly a revelation to the young king, for it was one levelled at him throughout his years, despite his achievements, no matter what heights he attained in any sphere.

He carried the weight of those words, the underscore of not good enough never quite leaving. His father had been a great believer in using stick over carrot, and it was unsurprising that he would be a focus of his dreams, the man so recently crossing the river. Or it was the poppy...whatever was in that wine the Egyptian kept foisting on him.


Achilleas felt it as if something were pressing the air from his lungs. It wasn’t real, it was a ghost of a sensation he knew, and he forced himself to drag in a long low breath to prove it to himself, angry that he was letting himself be so affected by what was just a dream. Just his mind playing more tricks upon him, his own feelings of failure manifesting in his subconscious.

But… that voice. What woke him, what had his heart hammering against his ribs, hadn’t been a memory of his father. It had been something else. And it seemed arrogant even to think it, but the thought was there and would not leave.

Zeus

The man kicked at the covers that had tangled around his legs, shuffled awkwardly as he tried to shift from his prone position. The wound hurt, yes, but it was the poison that had let him weak and useless, and he hissed his frustration at it as he struggled to sit upright. His feet found no traction, and every jostle sent a fiery lick of pain across his shoulder, ripped muscle and skin protesting beneath the bloodstained lined. By the time he’d managed it, he was breathing as hard as if he’d fought a battle.


“I did my best.” he said to no one. To himself. “I did the best I could.”

But the niggle that he hadn’t..that he was here and his men somewhere else, that he was moving away from the war rather than running toward it. It made his words ring hollow, and Achilleas’ head fell forward, his breath catching in his throat.

“Forgive me.” came the whisper, for those he couldn’t save. For those who’d put their faith in him and who he’d failed. For those come to tell him to do better. @zeus

He would have to.