Perspective Swap

Achilles (1)

Phthia was a melody sung in the rustle of olive leaves and the crash of waves against a rocky shore. It was a kingdom sculpted by my father's hand, a testament to the man who wrestled the gods and won a sea-goddess bride. Yet, for all its beauty, it felt like a gilded cage, especially for a creature born with the wind in his hair and the fury of the gods in his blood.

Father, King Peleus, ruled with a kind of gruff benevolence. Every so often, a new face would appear at the gates – a castaway from some distant storm, a boy banished or disowned, bearing the weight of a tattered reputation. Father, ever the magnanimous host, would take them in. "Let them find their footing," he'd say, his voice a rumble from his chest.

These boys, one after the other, would be ushered into the halls, gawking at the tapestries depicting my triumphs (fashioned, admittedly, before I could even hold a spear). They'd be filled with a nervous energy, desperate to prove themselves worthy of my father's charity. But their eyes, always, betrayed them. A flicker of envy, a simmering resentment at the life they could never have.

I endured their clumsy attempts at companionship. They'd tag along after me, their wooden practice swords bumping against their legs, their chatter a persistent buzzing in my ear. I'd ignore them, focusing on the rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore, the very ground thrumming with a power they couldn't even comprehend. They were shadows, flickering against the brilliance I knew was mine.

One by one, they faded. Some earned Father's trust and carved out a niche in Phthia. Others, unable to bear the weight of my silent judgment, vanished into the world beyond the rolling hills. Yet, none of them filled the void that gnawed at me, a hunger for an equal, (even though I knew full well that none other was "aristos achaion", nor near as great as I) or a reflection of the fire I felt burning within.