‘Do the gods trouble you, Seer?’ Achilles lowered himself to the ground to sit cross-legged beside her. ‘My father had a seer who went mad. The voices in his head were so loud he threw himself from a cliff.’ The youth eyed Danae. ‘Perhaps it’s catching.’
She huffed a breath through her nose, a dull ache throbbing behind her eyes.
‘I am not mad.’
Achilles shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
They sat in silence for a while, staring at the ocean.
Then Achilles said quietly, ‘My mother made me promise not to come to Troy.’
‘Why?’ Danae turned to study his profile in the gloom.
‘Because she says I am to die here.’
‘Why does she think that?’
Achilles plucked a shell from the sand, turning it between his fingers. ‘She was told so, by the oracle at Delphi.’ He met her gaze. ‘What do you think, Seer, will I meet my end before the Scaean Gates?’
‘I am no oracle,’ she said softly.
‘But you know the will of the gods. They favour you with their power, you have shown me as much.’
Danae wondered how many men he’d killed in battle. She wondered if fighting eased the burden of his fate.
‘Sorry, I do not know.’
Achilles chewed his lip, then turned back to the sea.
‘Mother also said that my legend will surpass even that of Heracles.’ He spoke without passion, without hope, as though what he said had already come to pass.
‘Do you not wish to live until your bones are weary? Have a family with the one you love?’
‘Patroclus is all I have ever truly wanted. And I have always known I would never grow old.’
‘You do not regret having to leave his side so soon?’
A frown marred Achilles’ brow. ‘He will have my legacy to comfort him, and we will be reunited in Elysium when he dies.’
A familiar ache rippled through Danae’s chest.
‘I’m sure he’d rather have you than your legacy.’
Achilles’ frown deepened to a scowl. ‘You are the strangest seer I’ve ever met.’
The hint of a smile pricked her lips. ‘I’ve been told that before.’
He leant back, resting on his forearms, his sea-beaded face tilted towards the night sky. ‘I see no point in fighting the fates. If I am to meet my destiny, I will do it on my terms.’
A warm breeze tousled Danae’s hair, like breath against her chill skin. And there, through the gentle rush of the waves, a song. Perhaps the Mother had not abandoned her after all.
She pushed herself to her feet. ‘Goodnight, Achilles, I will leave you to the ocean.’
Wrapping her arms around her chest, she trudged back towards the camp, the tempest of her thoughts finally lulled.
If Achilles could bear his fate with grace, so could she.
49. The Prodigal Son
