Anastasia Ilaeira Achourioti is participating in the International Literary Creation Competition, 7th Edition, from Athens, Greece and is 20 years old. We thank her for her participation and wish her success.

Let me kiss your hands

It is night when king Priam makes his way towards the enemy camp. No sound can be heard. If the old king were to look towards the sea, he would find her as dark and endless as the night sky, a depthless well pulling him in. There is no moon, no stars tonight. The world is mourning. 

He opens a tent flap, and their eyes meet over two bodies. One has been laid gently on the bed, the other lies mangled and disfigured on the ground, as if placed there carelessly in a fit of madness. Their gazes lock together, a forest green meeting an age-old withered blue. 

Priam walks slowly towards the young man in front of him, his steps heavy. Outside, rain has started falling. It is purifying the earth before the all-watching eyes of the gods. 

The old king kneels despite his knees hurting. He takes the young man’s hand in his. It is strong, bronzed from all the days spent fighting under the scorching sun. It is cold, like that of a dead man’s. He shudders when he sees the dried blood under his nails. He kisses it. 

“Your hands, they still reek of my son’s blood.” he says, voice hard and raspy. He is trembling slightly, but not from fear. “I have kissed them. May the Three Sisters never grant your father such a fate.”

Achilles stands unmoving above him, his eyes wide and glazed over. He wrenches his hand away from Priam’s hold. 

“Stand-up” he finally says.

Priam does so, knees creaking.  “I am here for my son” 

Achilles does not look at him. He pulls out a stool and helps the old king sit on it. Then he leaves and Priam listens as he calls for food and water to be brought to them.  

“You are a kind host to your enemy. The gods must love you.” 

Achilles’ mouth twists into a sad little smile at that. “No king Priam, they never have. But you have nothing to fear from me. You are not my enemy tonight.” 

“If that is true, why did you come to my shores Achilles?” 

The young warrior remains silent. Despite what Achilles might think Priam knows the workings of the gods, and they have always had their favorites. They nursed them on broken love and sea-glass promises. Heracles, Theseus, Jason… None more glorious than they, none more tragic. In the end, isn’t it a curse to be a favorite of the gods? Achilles has never belonged to the Greeks. He has never even belonged to himself; Priam can’t help but think. He is a child of the Fates, born and bred with their milk and playing with their infinite threads, like a cat plays with a ball of yarn. But those threads slowly make a noose around his neck as the gods watch and watch and watch…

“I admire your courage. How did you know I would not kill you?” Achilles asks.

“I didn’t. I can see you understand that death becomes a welcome friend after grief takes root inside of us. What more can you do to me, but send me to meet my son?”

Priam watches as those words pierce Achilles one by one. He sees his eyes watering slowly and the almost imperceptible tremble of his hands. He sees him turn his head towards the bed, towards the unmoving body on it. It is dressed in silk and jewels. Patroclus, he remembers. That is the fallen warrior’s name. That is who his son had killed. What a contrast to the body thrown carelessly on the ground. It looks filthy. All the dirt from the battlefield is stuck on the blood that has had time to dry up and crust. That is his son, that is Hector. He shouldn’t have looked at it; it was a mistake. How can he now control himself in front of his child’s killer?

He turns to Achilles ready to demand his son’s body one more time, only… Achilles is not there. He is by the bed, kneeling before it. There are tears streaming down his face as he pulls a blanket over the cold, dead man. He knew how much Patroclus had meant to Achilles. Still, it is so much worse to witness it. 

This is not a tent; this is a tomb. They are no more alive than the two corpses that already reside here. Their time is coming as well; he is sure of it. What can his rage give him that the Fates will not? They will fulfill his desire; they will take this killer’s life. This young man’s life, he thinks bitterly. Achilles shall never see thirty. He feels no relief knowing this, no happiness. The truth washes over him like rain. In another life perhaps he would have rejoiced in that truth, in knowing that the gods and the Fates themselves will avenge his son. But not in this one. What does it matter? His son will still be dead; Achilles will still be begging for an end to his suffering, and Priam… Priam will still be grieving. 

“Give him back to me, Achilles. Think of your father, old and weak. Think of him, a king in his own right, kneeling before the one who will take your life. Think of him kissing their hands, still stained with your blood.”

“Stop” he whispers, tears falling from his eyes. They look like melted emeralds, Priam thinks.

It must have been more than ten years since the young warrior last saw his father. Priam imagines old king Peleus waiting on the shores of Pythia for a head of golden hair which he will never see again. For sea-green eyes, which must have been innocent and lovely when they had left for war and cheeks still plump with youth. Did Peleus know of the prophecy? How could he let his son go knowing he would never see him again? How did Priam let his own son leave Troy’s walls to face Achilles?                                                                                                             

Priam feels his own tears start to fall. They had remained dry until now. He cries. He cries silent tears for his son who is now dead, for his city which will fall in some months’ time, for the last ten years, all he has faced and all he has lost. He cries for the young man in front of him too. How could he not? How could anyone?

“I am glad my father will never suffer your fate, king Priam.” Achilles whispers. “I will be buried here, on your shores. Let him remember me as I once was.”

“A gift.”

“Yes, perhaps it is.”

They are silent once more. The seconds slip through like water from cupped palms.  

“Give him back to me, my child.” Priam finally says.

Achilles nods. He walks towards the old king and helps him stand. Priam welcomes his help. When they are both standing, he is a bit taller than Achilles. He had been a bit taller than Hector as well. Achilles’ eyes meet his own for the first time since he entered the tent. His gaze freezes as he keeps looking at him. Perhaps their thoughts align, Priam thinks. Perhaps after ten years, Achilles cannot find the difference between Priam and his own father now that they are standing quite so close. Perhaps he has now realized that his life is not his own to throw away.

Achilles’ eyes widen when Priam’s wrinkly hands caress his hair, they fall closed when Priam leans and kisses his forehead. A tear falls, then another and another as he moves away from him. A father without a son, a son without a father and yet for one moment…

He knows Achilles has ordered to prepare Hector’s body, there is nothing else for him in this tent. He steps outside, feeling the warm summer air on his face. He has no reason to look back and yet he can’t resist. Through a small opening, he watches Achilles cradle a lifeless hand and press it to his face to staunch his tears as that hand would have done while alive. His eyes sting as he hears his muffled cries. A man begging for death, that’s what this is. His lips are still burning from the kiss he had just given. In another life, that could have been his own son. In another life, he may not have lost his own. 

“May you find rest, my child” he whispers.