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Life After Death by Alyson Tait
You are Achilles, the blessed son of Thetis and reigning prince of Phthia.
Troy has become ash, and the congregation tired warlords have returned to their solitary thrones.
You are led to the hall of your father. It lay in ruins with the walls and floors covered in moss, but within it, a choice awaits.
First is a statue. It shows you in the armor of Hephaestus, spear raised forever in that gesture that doomed Hector, and yourself. It is the image the world has chosen for you.
Second is an abstract painting. It holds wild strokes of crimson, blue, and gold that twist together like serpents. If you stare long enough, a face takes shape.
Before you decide, a whisper rises from the cellar mouth behind you, “Open the cellar door.”
If you choose the statue:
You stand before a chiseled image of yourself. Every feature is perfect: the curve of your jaw, the weight of your armor, the spear angled, ready to strike.
This is how the world will remember you—never fading, never aging, never disappointing. Etched as a weapon, a destroyer, a man of grief and wrath.
If you accept this, you seal yourself into marble. You are simply the warrior whose rage toppled Troy.
(Your story ends here.)
If you choose the painting:
The serpentine strokes shift as you watch, resolving into Medusa's face. "Sing to me," she whispers.
You lift your lyre, uncertain after not playing for so long. The strings bend softly beneath your calloused hands, but you build the melody made just for her, and the painting stirs.
Her mouth opens wider, and her voice comes out fierce, low, and deep like the sea. It intertwines with yours, which is high and bright as bronze.
The music makes Phthia glow.
The crops drink deeper, the cattle sleep easily, and the children dream without fear. In the morning, the painting is only paint again, having shown you your path.
You are Achilles the Bard. You offer remembrance and peace.
(Your story ends here.)
If you choose the cellar:
You are drawn to the oddly familiar whisper that no one else seems to hear, and to find the source, you descend into the damp and dim cellar.
At the bottom of the stairwell stands a mirror encased in bronze. Behind the glass is Patroclus, bent over a table, backlit by firelight. He speaks without looking up, "If the living remember you only as a weapon, let me remember you otherwise."
You reach for him. The glass ripples, and as if your fate were redrawn, you are together again—seated side by side as you once were, dawn breaking over Phthia, a lyre balanced on your knee.
"I dreamed of you," he says.
You pluck the strings, and he hums.
You are not a statue, nor a weapon, nor a death-struck boy. You live in peace, comforted in the knowledge that no one is talking about you at all, except the love of your life.
(Your story ends here.)