Chapter 20 - The Boy Beside the Grave
By the time I finally gather the courage to find him, the sun has already begun to set.
I had wanted to do something beautiful for him.
Something grand. Something worthy of a king, worthy of the man who had given me safety when the world had only ever handed me fear.
For days, I imagined candles and music, a private dinner, perhaps even a small gathering with the few people he trusted enough not to kill for speaking too loudly.
But every idea felt wrong the longer I held it.
Too much. Too bright. Too close to forcing him into a celebration he had spent years avoiding.
And the last thing I wanted was for him to smile for me while every part of him wanted to disappear.
So instead, I choose quiet.
I carry the box myself.
It is heavier than it looks, long and wrapped in dark fabric, the weight of it pulling slightly against my arms as I move through the halls.
Inside is the sword I had made for him, the blade I had thought about for too long, the gift I am suddenly terrified to give.
Not because he will hate it. Veronica had been right about that.
I could give him a stone from the road, and he would probably lock it away like treasure if he believed it mattered to me.
No, I am afraid because the sword means something.
It is not only a weapon. It is a promise.
A prayer. A plea I did not know how to say aloud.
I find Elias near the lower hall, leaning against a carved pillar as if waiting for me. He straightens the moment he sees the box in my arms, his expression softening in a way he tries to hide behind a smile.
"Looking for him?" he asks.
I nod. "Do you know where he is?"
"Unfortunately." His gaze drops to the box. "Want me to carry that?"
"No," I say quickly, tightening my hold. "I can take it."
His brows lift, but he doesn't argue. "Of course you can."
There is something gentle in his tone that makes my throat tighten, but I ignore it, following as he turns and leads me out of the manor.
We walk through the grounds in silence at first, the evening air cool against my cheeks, the sky dimming into shades of violet and blue above the trees.
The path beneath us turns from stone to dirt, then from dirt to something narrower and less traveled.
Branches reach overhead, knitting together until the last light of sunset breaks through in scattered pieces.
After a while, I glance at him. "Where are we going?"
"To where Achilles usually hides on his birthday," Elias says.
We walk a little farther before Elias stops near the mouth of a narrow path half-covered by moss and fallen leaves. He nods toward it.
"Down there."
I look at him, confused. "You're not coming?"
"No." His smile fades into something quieter. "Sorry. I'll wait here," he says. "Take your time."
I nod, holding the box tighter against me before stepping onto the path alone.
My own breathing is too loud in my ears. I walk carefully, slowly, the box awkward in my arms but grounding me all the same.
Then I hear his voice.
Low.
Rough.
Speaking to someone I cannot see.
I stop for a moment, my heart tightening. At first, I thought someone might be with him. Then I hear the pause after his words, the silence that answers him, and something in me understands before I take another step.
I move closer.
The trees part slightly, revealing a small clearing. There, set among roots and pale stones, is a grave.
And before it sits Achilles.
He is on the ground, one knee drawn up, one arm resting loosely over it, his head bowed.
His shoulders are stiff, but there is something wrong in the way he sits, something stripped bare that I have never seen so plainly on him.
No throne. No crown. No court. No soldiers waiting for command.
Just a man sitting before a stone, carrying a grief that has clearly never learned how to die.
He turns when he hears me.
For one second, neither of us speaks.
I can see his face clearly enough to feel my heart crack open.
His eyes are red. His cheeks are wet. Tears stain his skin in quiet trails he did not bother to wipe away quickly enough.
He looks exhausted. But human in a way so raw it almost feels like I have stepped into something sacred without permission.
Then he laughs.
It is a small sound. Broken at the edges.
"I probably look really pathetic right now."
I say nothing.
Because there is nothing pathetic about grief.
I set the box down carefully beside a tree and walk to him. He watches me the whole time, as if he expects me to turn away, as if some part of him still believes being seen as this should cost.
I sit beside him in the grass without asking. The ground is cool beneath my dress, the air colder now that the sun has disappeared completely. For a while, I only sit there with him, silent, letting the quiet settle around us.
Then I tap my thigh once.
He looks at me, one brow lifting slightly despite the redness in his eyes.
I tap again.
Slowly, he moves, lowering himself until his head rests in my lap.
My hand finds his hair automatically, fingers sliding through the dark strands with careful, slow strokes. His eyes close for a moment, and the breath he releases is so heavy it feels like he has been holding it for years.
"Tell me about yourself," I whisper.
His eyes open slightly. "About myself?"
"Yes."
"You know me."
"I know the king," I say softly. "I know my husband. I want to know the boy you were. I want to know about you, past about...." I glance toward the gravestone. "Tell me about your brother."
His eyes stay on mine, but his expression changes. Not closing. Not quite. Just bracing.
"What do you want to know?"
I think for a moment, still combing my fingers gently through his hair.
"What was his name?"
"Asher....My mother named him," Achilles says after a moment. "My father named me."
I look down at him. "Why?"
His mouth twitches faintly, but it does not become a smile. "My mother said Asher looked like peace when he was born. My father said I looked angry."
A soft laugh escapes me.
Achilles glances up at me, and for a moment, the sadness in his eyes warms just slightly.
"She wasn't wrong," he adds. "Neither was he."
I smile sadly. "What was he like?"
He looks away then, his gaze drifting back toward the stone.
For a long time, he has only breathed.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
"He was better behaved than I was," he says. "Not better. Just... better at pretending. He understood rules before I decided whether they were worth following. He knew how to sit still in court. How to answer questions properly. How to make people feel heard while telling them nothing."
"That sounds useful."
"It was irritating."
I smile faintly.
"He was strict," Achilles continues. "Even as a child.
He would scold me like he was already an old man trapped in a boy's body.
If I broke something, he would lecture me before helping me hide it.
If I insulted an idiot, he would apologize on my behalf, then laugh about it with me later, where no one could hear. "
His voice softens in a way that hurts to hear.
"He made me better at surviving people."
My fingers pause briefly, then continue through his hair.
"And you?"
"I made him worse."
This time, the smile on his face is wider.
"I got him into trouble constantly. He hated it.
.. But he loved it too," he continues, his voice quieter now, softer around the edges in a way I rarely hear.
"He would complain the entire time, tell me I was reckless, that I was going to get us both killed, that one day he wouldn't be there to fix whatever mess I made. .. but he followed me anyway."
His gaze drifts past me, not unfocused, just far away.
"He looked like the responsible one," Achilles murmurs. "Everyone thought he was. The better twin. The one who should have been king."
There is no bitterness in his tone.
"But he wasn't," he adds after a moment. "He was just... better at lying. Better at pretending he had everything under control."
My fingers still for a fraction of a second, threading gently through his hair, anchoring him to the present even as he drifts somewhere else entirely.
"He knew how to wear a mask," Achilles continues. "How to say the right thing. How to look like he agreed, even when he didn't. I never learned that."
His mouth curves faintly, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"I never cared to...For the first two years after he died," he says slowly, "I hated him."
The words land like something solid between us.
I don't speak.
I don't interrupt.
I listen.
"That's why I come here," he continues, his gaze settling on the gravestone again. "Not out of grief. Not at first."
A pause.
"I came here to be angry." My chest tightens.
"I would sit right where I am now," he says, his voice flattening into something colder, more controlled, "and I would yell at him like he was still alive. Like he could hear me. Like he owed me answers."
His jaw tightens slightly.
"I asked him why he was so stupid," he says. "Why would he do something like that. Why would he choose... that path?"
The word is deliberate.
Careful.
"I told him he was selfish," Achilles continues. "That he had no right to leave things like that. No right to leave me with it."
His breathing shifts.
Still steady.
But heavier.
"I would scream at a ghost," he says quietly. "Over and over again, as if repeating the question would somehow force an answer out of silence."
"And then," he says after a long pause, "the anger stopped."
His voice changes again.
Not sharper.
Not louder.
Just... tired.
"And I started blaming myself...I replayed everything," he continues. "Every conversation. Every argument. Every moment, I didn't notice that something was wrong. Every time I chose not to ask a question because I assumed I already knew the answer."
"I had questions," he says. "Too many. Questions I will never get answers to, but was desperately looking for ."
My throat tightens painfully.
"That's how I found his journal." Achilles exhales slowly, his gaze fixed on the stone as it might still hold something he hasn't yet uncovered. "He wrote everything down," he says. "Things he never said out loud. Things he never let anyone see."
"He hated me."
The words are quiet.
But they cut deeper.
I inhale sharply. "Achil..."
"He did," he interrupts, not harshly, but firmly. "Not all the time. Not in the way enemies hate each other."
His jaw tightens again.
"But enough."
I swallow.
"He knew what I had to do," Achilles continues. "He understood it. He knew why it had to be done. He even said it himself."
His voice roughens.
"But that didn't stop him from hating me for it."
"He loved her," he says. "And I-"
He stops.
His throat shifts.
"And you did what you had to," I whisper.
His eyes close briefly.
"I did." The word sounds like something dragged out of him."And he knew that," Achilles says. "He knew I had no choice, that it wasn't about love. That it wasn't about cruelty."
"And he still couldn't forgive me."
"I didn't even see it," Achilles continues. "That's the worst part."
His voice drops.
"I didn't notice how much it was hurting him. How much anger he was carrying. How much of it was... directed at me."
His fingers tighten slightly.
"I thought I knew him," he says. "Better than anyone."
His gaze lifts to mine.
"I didn't."
There is no anger in his eyes now.
No accusation.
Just quiet devastation.
"And now," he continues, "every year..." He exhales slowly."im reminded of the crime I committed...A reminder," he repeats, "that the man I shared a womb with learned how to hate me."
The words feel like something fragile breaking in the air between us.
"That he lied to me," Achilles says. "That he carried things I never saw. That he felt things he never trusted me enough to say."
His voice lowers.
"That I failed him in ways I didn't even know were possible."
My eyes burn.
"And even though I came here," he adds, quieter now, "even though I apologized."
His gaze drops back to the stone.
"It was too late."
The wind moves through the trees, soft and restless, like the world itself doesn't know what to do with the weight of his words.
"Every year," Achilles murmurs, "I remember how I rushed home on my birthday, a box in hand, ready to prank my brother ."
His voice shifts again.
Not sharp.
Not cold.
Just... hollow.
"I remember thinking how he would laugh and tell me to grow up. That we would celebrate, that would be... normal."
A faint, broken laugh leaves him.
"I remember walking into that moment and not understanding that everything had already changed."
My fingers tremble slightly in his hair.
"And now," he says, "I relive it."
A pause.
"Over and over again."
My voice comes out softer than I expect. "Achilles..."
He sits up slowly, then, pulling away from my lap, though he doesn't go far. He stays close, his body still angled toward me, as if distance isn't something he can fully tolerate anymore.
He drags a hand through his hair, his expression tightening slightly as he exhales.
"Yes," he says quietly.
I stare at him.
"...your brother died on your birthday?"
His jaw shifts.
"Yes, my love."
The word is simple.
Heavy.
"October first," he continues, his voice steady now in a way that feels practiced. "The day my brother took his first breath..."
He looks at the gravestone.
"...became the day i took his last."