Aristos Achaion In Homer's Odyssey

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Dawn rises and with her, Helios. They spread their light across the dusty plains of my homelands. The once golden soil so blessed by the gods, now thick with the lifes blood of the foolish and unlucky. The withered field strewn with lifeless figures, becoming a sea. Blood red and merciless, it hungers to drag down who so ever steps foot in it’s entanglement of rusted bronze and decaying bodies. I have lost so many men here, and killed twice as many more. Brothers, cousins, sons, it no longer matters when caught in the whirlpool of war. The blood of my men and the blood of our enemies mingle and churn, mixing as it flows through the field as if it were the fabled River Styx. I am the boatman, leading their souls down to the house of Hades.

All of this destruction. All of this death, was caused by only one, one man. No, one boy. Aristos Achaion, as he is known, ‘the greatest Greek’. His hair and armour shines and golden and brought as the sun, rivalling the gods
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Launching a spear, it catches the wheel and the chariot falls, throwing its occupants. One swing of my sword. One swift movement. That is all it takes to bring him down. The dust clears, his helmet tossed aside, surrounded by broken and cracked wood. The gold of his helmet catches the sun. It draws my eye to the earth that mixes with the blood that pools into a trail. My eyes follow eagerly, finding where it stems from. The boy struggles. Holding his stomach with one hand and with the other he drags himself away from me. I watch cruelly for a moment. He writhes and his breath catches in his throat, he stops. His body falling limp. Colour and light fading from him along with what remains of his life. A heavy weight presses over my heart, my stomach sinking. The boys armour was as golden as the sun, rivalling the gods themselves. Everything about him was golden, but his hair. An Achaean soldier stands beside me, he knows who this boy
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