( closed ) a lifelong walk to the same exact spot

[heelies]

CHARACTERS: Achilles and Koltira, others later
DATE: Following this post
WARNINGS: Homeric levels of violence
SUMMARY: Something like this, probably.


[When Koltira answers his challenge at last, the sun is midway through its descent, and from this oblique angle it casts its light upon Achilles' glinting armor and gold-crested helmet, setting him aglow with all the resplendence of a funeral pyre. Outside of the town, away from the encampment, he waits with spear stoutly poised, its butt struck against the hard earth and its pitiless bronze head pointing toward the heavens.

Although he is flung so far from the keen eyes of the gods, those immortals who upon steep Olympus dwell, he has offered supplications that he might receive their benison nevertheless. The throats of what game can be found in the thin groves of this land, these he and Patroclus have slit to let flow the blood in honor of the immortals, and their thigh bones and rich fat they have burned, so that with the smoke rose his fervent prayers that bright-eyed Athena would breath strength into his limbs and guide his spear true.

He is a man made sharply aware of the specter of death, whose shadow has long cast over him as would a funeral pall over a body. It is not out of ignorance that he challenges Koltira, nor arrogance such that makes a man think himself indestructible: well does he know he might fall in this duel. If Koltira should revoke his mercy, if Fate should reclaim him, if the healers should fail in their godlike gifts, then he is lost from the country of the living. He does not wish to die, but nor does he wish to bear the weight of his wounded pride which has only swollen worse for all the days it has gone untended: thus, no matter the outcome, the son of Peleus tells himself that he shall accept it.]

Comments

[respired]

[ Nothing but rage drives Koltira now. He hadn't wanted to do this, and on many levels he still doesn't, but Achilles's arrogance cannot stand. His disregard for Olivia cannot stand. Koltira feels the weight of her disapproval even as he walks to meet Achilles, but it's not nearly so heavy as the fury in his throat. Koltira is the first to agree that he is not a good person, but he is loyal. To a fault, really. He imagines her pain on knowing of this duel, but then he remembers her pain of just a few nights past. Sobbing, broken, refusing to eat. Miserable with love for this unworthy, sniveling, coward.

His grip on Byfrost's hilt tightens. He waits for Achilles, dressed in his own armor, his dreadplate. Black and dark blue, carved with skulls and sinister runes, glowing with the same lichfire that blazes in his eyes. Armor worked from the corrupted blood of a dead god. It is the first time he's worn it since arriving on this planet.

He brandishes Byfrost with one hand as Achilles approaches. With his free hand, he beckons.

Come on. ]

I will let you strike first, kim'jael.

[ He sneers. ]

If you even can.

[heelies]

[Opposite one another as now they stand, each man looks the antithesis of the other, as are the sun and the moon which over the same sky cannot rule: Achilles the golden son of noble and divine birth, blessed by Zeus and enshrined in his gleaming god-forged armor, and Koltira the child of cursed death, touched not by benison but by torment, clad not in bronze but in blood. In Achilles' thinking, it is inevitable that they clash. Thus does his pride impel him forward as would the current of a river that never once allows its waters respite.

The insult is foreign in his ears, but the contempt that sluices forth needs no translation to be understood. His chest swells with his fury and his features twist in scorn.

He matches the death knight's taunt by raising his spear and lightly tossing it in his grip as if debating if he shall hurl its long-shadowed shaft or not. Glorious though this spear may be, that which gold-clad Gilgamesh once bestowed upon him, its heft does not match that of Peleus' great ash spear, that weapon which none has strength enough to wield in its deadliest capacity - none but brilliant Achilles, he whose strength outstrips ordinary men threefold. At once he answers:]

If that is what you so desire, then gladly shall I repay your generosity. Accept now the gift of my pitiless bronze!

[So speaking, he readies his lance, and although he marshals no troops he lets tear from his throat a terrible war cry, the might of which has before compelled Trojan warriors to cast themselves upon their own spears. Then with a great bound, the son of Peleus, murderous, doomed, lets fly the glinting bronze, setting its course for Koltira's throat, that place from which a man most easily loses his life.]

[respired]

[ Truly, it is not what he desires, but his own anger blinds him well enough that he's not going to back down, either. He says nothing as Achilles readies himself, as he lifts the gleaming spear. When Koltira was out in the desert, he was lost to himself; he was a mad wanderer, locked in agony, seeking only the respite of blood. But here, now, he is in full control of his faculties. The pain that throbs in his muscles is a distraction, one he's trained himself to ignore. He is cold, focused, ruthless.

And--above all--he is fast.

As the spear races for him, its weight parting the air with a loud hiss, Koltira brandishes Byfrost. He casts no magic; whispers no spell. He simply parries, one-handed, striking the spear aside as though turning away a feeble slap. ]

You will have to do better than that.

[heelies]

[Once more he feels the sharp sting of humiliation inside his breast, so like the swift strike of a snake whose bite poisons the flesh, to see his spear throw so easily thwarted. A thousand men he has felled by the strength of that same throw, yet against Koltira it loses all potency, as feeble as the half-formed toss of a youth who still is learning the spear. Never has he known such a feeling, blessed as he is with limbs that knew the spear's haft and bronze head from the moment he first wielded it as a boy, maneuvering its heft as if it were no less natural to him than breathing - never has he known such a feeling, that is, but for in battle against the death knight.

Yet for all that his impotence, his fury only burns all the brighter. Swift-footed Achilles charges Koltira with his blade brandished and his shield before him, that gleaming shield that the smith god himself did forge for him, its gold engraved with elaborate scenes of the heavens and of man in all seasons of life and moreover imbued with the blessing of the gods. Its face Koltira had tarnished and scarred when last they clashed, yet he had not taken it to the town smith, that he may keep it as a reminder of his shame and the rage born thus.

With a fierce cry, his precision and speed together deadly, he swings his sword in hope that he might with its pitiless edge slash open Koltira's throat, intent on nothing less than a lethal blow.]

[respired]

[ Achilles has strength and speed beyond the average human warrior; that is plain enough to see. He rushes at Koltira like the wind itself, an angry gale force that slams against the dark wall of Koltira's armor. Koltira tries to dodge, but he's not entirely successful; the sharp point of Achilles's sword draws black blood, which drips corrosive down Koltira's breastplate, hissing as it spatters the dry earth.

Koltira scowls, leaping backwards; though Achilles opened a serious wound, Koltira seems more angry than weakened. Unholy runes flare along the length of Byfrost's blade; the sickly green magic drips like poison from Byfrost's keen edge. He means to give this man a fever he can't sweat out.

Koltira lunges, but it is not the same movement as before. Not the ungainly, erratic step of a berserker. He moves now with the killing grace afforded to all of his people, with the unholy speed granted by the grave. He swings Byfrost as though it were no more than a toy, aiming to cut across Achilles's knees, to both bleed him and knock him off his feet at once.

Should he manage even a glancing slice, the plague will steal into Achilles's veins, and a debilitating pain will follow. ]

[heelies]

[Yet for all his godlike strength, for all that with which Thetis' divine blood infuses him, he still is but a man. Even the gods themselves are not impervious, and he is but an echo of their majesty manifest in mortal flesh.

Like a gust sent by Poseidon the great earthshaker to fill a fleet's sails as over the salt-green waves the prows glide, the fighting spirit swells in his breast for the hiss and drip of Koltira's black blood. He does not yet allow himself to revel, for victory hangs far above his head still. He takes this opportunity instead to retrieve his spear from where it had landed after deflecting off of Byfrost, that bloodthirsty blade which death-weaving Koltira wields.

Ere he can reach the resting place of his long-shadowed spear, however, the elf lunges for him with his blade before him. The grim glow of its edges are all that warn Achilles of the impending assault, so deadly swift is its bearer that his body appears to move all at once, as if by will rather than by effort of his muscles. He turns to brace himself against this as best he can. The gleaming greaves that brace his shins deflect the blow, by the blessing of Hephaestus who wields his godly hammer over his forge in the belly of Mount Etna, but his calf is not spared Byfrost's sharp bite. Blood bursts forth to redden the last vestiges of snow that dust the orange earth, and with a groan, Achilles sinks to one knee.

Still he bears his shield before him, for well does he know that the worst is yet to come.]

[respired]

[ Achilles's blood runs upward along the channel cut into Byfrost, glowing bright red as the sword absorbs it. Koltira runs his tongue over his vampiric canines as he feels the stolen life-force fill him; the fresh wound on his neck heals from the sheer potency of it, and the sallow color of his skin turns slightly more sanguine. The runes skitter and shift, turning crimson, too.

Koltira brings Byfrost down on Achilles's shield, putting his weight into it; he whispers low as tendrils of bloody magic rise and writhe from the runes, his ethereal voice unnervingly smooth. ]

Where are your gods, Achilles? Will you cry out for them?

[ The gathering magic bursts, as does the plague now festering in Achilles's veins; he will feel a blistering, searing heat in his blood; an excruciating pain. As though his body were a cauldron, and his blood the boiling soup. ]

Will they answer?

[heelies]

[No prayers break upon his lips, for at present his pain is so great that he can scarce shape the names of the divine from the sizzling white hot noise of his every nerve screeching inside his skull. From his throat unfurls a scream, ugly to behold like a wounded bird that throws its weight from a cliff not to soar through the sky but to plummet to the sea and in its wine-dark waves drown. Soon he bites down on the gushing, gurgling sound, teeth grinding one row against the other, so as not to let his cries slip through the dam thereof.

The god-forged shield of brilliant Achilles holds against Byfrost, the might of which would soon pierce the bronze and bull's hide layers of shields worked by mortal hands. Yet his arm begins to falter as his blood boils, the unrelenting heat in his veins seeming to vanish his strength.

It seems to him that his best defense is movement: should he remain braced where he is, his strength shall be as the morning mists that dissipate at once when strikes the sun. Thus, in spite of the pain that holds him fast in its claws, he pushes as best he can against Koltira's blade that he might launch himself backward. Although he shall remain on his knees even so, he acts on the hope that if he can escape the reach of the fiend's godcraft, then he might rise to his feet once more.]

[respired]

[ It's a satisfying sound, that scream. Koltira is loathe to admit it, even now in the depths of his anger, even as much as he feels Achilles deserves this pain. But what might seem ugly to most ears is like a song to Koltira, a balm that eases his own ever-constant agony. He hisses through his teeth in satisfaction to hear it, and the unbidden thoughts that scratch always at the back of his mind clamor for more, for worse.

Achilles pushes back, and his heroic strength does him credit; he's able to writhe free and stand once more on his own two feet. Koltira stumbles, though he does not fall, bracing himself with Byfrost brandished in front of him. His spellwork fades, and the plague quiets, though Koltira's runeblade drips still with poisonous magic. The runes shift again, and frost crawls up along the length of the blade, shimmering blue and humming. A gale force wind kicks up around Koltira's boots as a localized tempest of snow and ice forms. This relentless winter howls as Koltira stalks forward; its winds bite and claw, its chill can paralyze a man right to the bone. ]

Yield, Achilles! Yield, or face death!

[ He lunges as he speaks, slashing with Byfrost, tired now of this game, this foolish fight. He aims to tear open his opponent's gut, and he jumps as fast as the paralyzing winds that scream around his body. ]

[heelies]

[For all the unfathomable leagues that gape between this land and the long shadow of Mount Olympus, he feels in this moment as if the breath of the gods flows through him, guiding his every step as he claws his way back to his feet and at once sheathes his blade to lunge instead for his felled spear. His flesh screams still with the echo of Koltira's assault, yet Achilles pushes himself through this pain - for when the water's surface is close over a man's head, he cannot allow the burning in his lungs to be reason enough to stop thrashing his limbs.]

It is yet too soon to yield to you! The fighting spirit still is strong within my breast!

[When Koltira swings his gruesome blade, Achilles purposes to leap aside that he can seize the opportunity to thrust his spear while Byfrost is occupied already with this aim. He shall not see, however, if the pitiless bronze meets its mark in the death knight's flesh.

The speed of the blade is what overcomes him first, its brutal strength second. The golden breastplate forged by the smith god absorbs the brunt of the blow, its gleaming surface glazed over with frost as Byfrost's chill sinks deep into Achilles' bones, seizing him as winter seizes stream and soil. Yet even the splendid gifts of Hephaestus cannot cradle Peleus' son from all of Koltira's wrath: the sword bites through to split his flesh and drink of his blood, and from his lips it tears a groan.]

[respired]

[ Koltira seethes as Achilles's spear gouges his breastplate; his armor breaks, and blood and metal spill forth, darkening the sand beneath their feet. He was enraged going into this fight, and he has felt that cold fire burn ever higher in his throat as the minutes pass. He is not yet blinded by his anger, but he feels the hazy film growing. As Byfrost absorbs more of Achilles's semi-divine life-force, the wound just inflicted by the spear begins to rapidly seal itself; in this, Achilles's strength in his weakness. His blood is special, his vitality bright and potent, and Koltira's vampiric runeblade is capable of stealing every last drop of its power.

Koltira lifts one hand, the lichfire in his eyes flaring. ]

Do you know why you are alive right now, Achilles? Do you know why your filthy coward's feet still walk this Light-forsaken earth?

[ He growls, his normally lilting voice rough and dark, echoing like jagged steel against stone. ]

Olivia's tender mercy saved you, and not merely through her healing arts alone. You should forsake everything for her! You should grovel at her feet, and beg her favor. Instead, you are faithless and false.

[ He lifts one hand, drawing a blood rune in the air. The rune shapes itself into a ghostly, ornate mirror; thick red blood runs down its surface as it shimmers between the two of them. The next attack Achilles makes will bring its pain back on him. ]

You are an arrogant, selfish fool. And for your arrogance, you will suffer as you never have before. You will suffer --

[ Meantime, Koltira strikes again -- ]

-- and suffer

[ -- and again -- ]

-- and suffer!

[ and again. A flurry of strikes with his sword, seemingly too fast for a weapon of its size, all aimed to rend and shatter, to bring Achilles back to his knees. ]

[heelies]

[While Koltira swells with the golden strength stolen from him, Achilles wanes as does the moon once it has reached its fullest measure and then from there cannot go any farther, so it must fold in upon itself to be enshrouded in darkness. With every strike, Byfrost rends anew his armor and slices all the more deeply his flesh. For every blow he deflects with his splendid shield, two more carve him as knife carves meat upon which man shall sup: down his arms and legs and from every fissure in his breastplate pours his blood to redden the nourishing earth, and from his lips is knocked one groan after another in a steady stream.

So too is Achilles lashed by the assault of Koltira's castigations, each word of which tears at wounds still raw. If he had broken Olivia's heart, then surely his own has cracked as well, for nothing so messy as the hearts of men can ever split cleanly - and after all, the wounds one causes himself are so often the most painful. Yet no words can he lob in retaliation while all of his failing strength must be poured into his arms, one of which bears his shield, the other his noble spear, and into his legs that throb to bear his weight.

When at last he manages to lunge to the side and from there thrust the pitiless bronze of his spear into Koltira's shoulder, the pain he intends that the elf should suffer thunders instead through his own flesh, and he cries out in surprise as much as in agony. The next swift strike of Koltira's blade then fells him at last. Like a stalwart wall to which siege is laid for endless days and nights until at last it crumbles, so too does godlike Achilles collapse to his knees.

His knuckles are white upon the haft of his spear, and his shield he holds before him still, and all the while his mind cries out the names of his gods who shall never hear him in this land.]

[respired]

[ Koltira's spell redirects some of the spear's thrust, but not the full extent of it; his armor cracks again as Achilles finds a weakness, as the spear's sharp point jabs into Koltira's collarbone. He hisses with renewed fury, a rage not tempered even by the sight of Achilles on his knees. The air between them is heavy and rank with the scent of blood, both from Achilles and his own. Salt and copper fill Koltira's mouth; he tastes the bitter wine all over his tongue, feels it smeared hot over his canines. Byfrost drinks lustily, and for a few moments Koltira looks nearly alive as he towers over Achilles, his skin sanguine, his lips red with stolen vitality.

As if guessing Achilles's mind, he batters the shield with Byfrost as he spits -- ]

Do you hope for divine intervention, Achilles? Know that it was no divinity who preserved you last time! Know that it was Olivia alone, that it was her face bright in my mind. For I know she loves you, and this knowledge clawed its way up from the depths of my madness. And so you were spared.

[ Slam. He bears down on Achilles, on the shield, determined to crack it. Hissing ice pours from the blade, coating the shield, reaching also for the body beyond. ]

I thought to preserve her heart! I should have realized it was not safe in your keeping.

[ Slam. ]

No divinity comes for you now, Achilles. Only me.

[ He heaves, raising Byfrost for a final, furious strike. ]

But think of your gods, if it comforts you! Cry out to them, and pray!

[heelies]

[As when the ice that enshrines a stream in the cold, still heart of winter splits beneath the burden of footfall and through it man plunges, so too does Achilles' shield crack at last beneath the shattering force of Koltira's blade, the fissure wrought thus running through the engraved scene of a wedding feast and rending the golden figures limb from limb. When the craft of the smith god yields, his blessing all for naught, so too falters Achilles' arm, once strong but now flickering like the final embers ere the fire is extinguished. To the earth his tarnished shield falls, and he is left defenseless.

Blazing triumphantly for all that it has drank, Byfrost sears his flesh across his shoulder, spilling blood and splitting bone. He chokes on a scream, this thing foul and wet like a bird emerging half-formed from a smashed shell. He keeps his head low, folding in that he might protect himself, out of instinct more so than anything resembling hope. His flesh throbs as if his heartbeat is everywhere at once, so frantic to hold him together even as his lifeblood drains from too many gashes to count, yet growing more feeble by the moment. His vision begins to darken as if over him is cast a thick pall.

Just as Olivia's visage had once risen in Koltira's maddened mind, restoring clarity to that which was brackish chaos, so too had she then risen in his own mind: when on the precipice of accepting death, he had then remembered what it was for which he must yet live.

It is not the likeness of Olivia that now seeps into his darkening thoughts, but that of Patroclus, the glorious son of Menoetius, shining there like a beacon. He cannot yet be cast through the gates of Hades, for whose shade would welcome him to the Acheron's far shore? How can Fate be so cruel as to steal him away from his dear companion who was just lately restored to his side?

Thus it is with tears glistening upon his cheeks that he reaches out to feebly grasp Koltira by the knee. When he speaks, each syllable cracks quietly upon his lips, and no god does he name.]

K...Koltira...

[respired]

[ Rage corrupts Koltira's reason, but he is not lost to himself. This is no blood-sick frenzy; his fury then was born of starvation, of uncontrollable, irresistible suffering. This ferocity is focused. Personal. Achilles had wronged him, first through disrespect, and then through hurting someone he loved. Koltira had not wanted this fight--he had tried to resist Achilles's taunts. But anger comes to him like breath in the lungs of the living, and he can tolerate only so much provocation.

He feels cold triumph as Achilles chokes, as his sundered armor falls to the bloodied sand. For a few seconds, Koltira does exult in the sight of Achilles brought low; he drinks in the pain, indulging the terrible desires that plague his mind every day. Would that he hated the whole of Audentes with such violent purity. Would that the curse could be so sated.

But Koltira is more than what's made him. As Achilles reaches for him, his face ashen and wet, Koltira's victory turns bitter in his throat. When Achilles whispers his name, he feels not satisfaction, but horror.

Another strike, he realizes, and Achilles will die.

Part of him wants to do it. The curse hisses with Arthas's voice, urging him to finish the job. To take vengeance.

He thinks of Olivia again. He thinks of the others, and their remarks, and their judgments; their kindness and their contempt. He thinks of the Taraxa and their Deemer hosts. Bodies upon bodies, strewn across the desert.

His hands tremble.

He lowers his sword. ]

You must yield.

[ Please. ]

[heelies]

[In the end, it is not pride that shall sustain him. He himself had once said that even the gods cannot forever stay angry, and now the bright flame of his indignation, that which had seared his chest until he could no longer be still, has at last been doused. In this moment it is not his bruised ego whose dark shadow haunts him, but that of the end of mortality, an end he still cannot welcome into his embrace.

This cannot be the end that Fate intended for him. For all that he had gnashed his teeth that he would accept whatever lot was delivered unto him at the close of this duel, this one thing he rejects with all of his heart. In the end, he is only human.

Thus he allows his spear to fall to the earth. From where he is knelt, it is not so far a fall, and there it clatters with sharp finality. Now empty of weapon, his hand joins its brother upon Koltira's knee in the traditional pose of supplication, smearing with blood the dreadplate armor.]

Have mercy...upon me...

[It is not pride that shall cease the spill of blood from his body or shuck the shawl of dark death that draws itself over him, but mercy. Each word strains from his lips on breaths that rasp like seed pods dried and browned at autumn's finish.]

I cannot win...in this battle...you...are the better man.

[respired]

[ Koltira is victorious, but he feels no glory. Only disgust--both for himself and for the man clinging to his knee. Koltira's eyes widen in dismay as Achilles clutches him; repulsion chokes him, and he struggles not to kick Achilles away. Had he not wanted this? Had he not forced this terrible show of humility? He should revel in this display. Some quiet, cruel part of him does--that same lightless bit of his soul still hissing for him to crush Achilles fully into the dirt and finish the job. But the better part of him is appalled.

He shouts, both into his jewelry and at anyone nearby. ]

Olivia! Someone! He needs a healer -- now!

[ He kneels down carefully after he's made the call, pulls Achilles's hands away. ]

This is finished.

[ And he doesn't just mean the battle, he doesn't just mean this moment. He means whatever is between them -- at least, insofar as it might lead to this kind of violence, which Koltira understands it must not come to again. ]

Yes? It is finished.