"And thus, we arrive at this momentous occasion—a streak of thirty consecutive victories. Can anyone ever hope to surpass such a feat? We all ask ourselves, but don't we, in truth, already know?"

Achilles hardly took notice of the nonsensical chatter of Dustfur, somewhere on his right. Was this really what was meant to occur?

If I am ever again made to fight something other than a gnawer, I shall let it kill me. He recalled his own words, written only a few days ago, and his gaze remained fixed on the massive body of the stinger he had just killed. Observing as two gnawers emerged from a side tunnel to carry away the body, he couldn't help but wonder where they were taking them. Where did they take all those he killed?

The sword nearly slipped from his grasp as someone energetically shoved him in the back. "Fantastic battle, Achilles," snarled Longclaw into his ear, and before he knew what hit him, the massive gnawer had lifted him and placed him on his shoulders, then stood tall on his hind legs. "Behold him!" he yelled. "Behold! Behold! Still barely more than a pup, and already such an excellent killer!"

As the crowd erupted in cheers and Longclaw paraded him around on his shoulders, the usual rush of joy that came with praise was nowhere to be found. Achilles struggled to even raise his sword triumphantly. They are cheering for me, he thought over and over. Cheering . . . praising . . . And he craved the applause . . . yet suddenly, he hated the attention. It was empty. It was . . .

Was he only a killer? A ruiner? Was that all that he could excel at? All that he could be admired for? A chill shot down his back, making his head spin. Blood trickled from his cracked lips as he forced them into a smile.

He should have killed me . . . the stinger, he should have . . . Not by a gnawer, thought Achilles. He had no desire to be killed by a gnawer, and he could easily give a long list of reasons why. But by a stinger? He had never even seen one before today. This stinger who had been captured and dragged here was so much more deserving of victory, of life, than Achilles.

You have told yourself that you will be the master of your own death. The voice in his head spoke louder than Longclaw. You are absent of cause or excuse. You are indulgent and despicable, and no one besides this audience of fiends could ever want you.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

You are one of them, too. You will not be more than a rat among rats. Is it not so? It is empty, Achilles. All empty. Your act here is a ruse.

It was. He could no longer even relish it. He was . . .

So cease hesitating. End it all now. It is pointless to hesitate. Why do you hesitate?

He could not answer. There was no answer. There was no . . . Only when Longclaw put him back on his feet did he realize he was trembling. Wasn't the temperature here always the same? His eye met one of the vibrant braziers, casting a warm glow over the sandy circle.

Is it not why you do this? To end it? To be the master of your own death?

The voice . . . he squinted, desperate to block it out, wishing it would never haunt him again. It was a voice he knew well, yet couldn't quite pinpoint. A voice that both comforted and tormented him, one that disrupted his dull routine, yet also brought him unbearable truths.

"We shall notify you as always when the next brave contender arises!" Longclaw called after him as Achilles was already making his way up the path toward the lake. He could barely keep himself walking straight, and the moment the arena vanished from his view, he ripped off his mask and took a series of deep breaths, one after the other.

"Are you alright?"

He flinched as Kismet caught him off guard. With his mind preoccupied with staying conscious, he hadn't sensed her approach.

"Henry, your leg!" Had she not caught him under his arms when she did, he would have collapsed.

"I'm . . . fine."

Kismet cared not about his weak attempt to assure her. "You are not fine. Do you not see that bleeding?" Only then did he notice that he had left a trail of bloodied footprints and that his pant leg was drenched. "We will have to take a closer look in my cave." With that, she hauled him onto her back, and Achilles was too powerless to protest.

His eye shut, and he lost all sense of their journey to her cave. Only when she dropped him on the floor again did he realize they had made it back. "Now hold still," she said. "And let us see that wound."

He managed to pry his eye open and stared blankly at the pant leg drenched in dark blood. When Kismet tore the fabric, he took in the deep cut that stretched from the side of his knee to the center of his lower leg. "I barely feel it," he mumbled, hand hovering above the vicious wound.

Kismet paused, looking at him somberly, before shoving his waterproof container toward him. "The body adapts. The more pain we experience, the less it bothers us."

"Ha!" He managed to give her a smile. "Is that not . . . not . . ."

"Good?" Kismet made a face. "Not even remotely."

For some reason, her words echoed in his head like the resounding of a great bell, making him squint. "I think it is no longer working." He tended to the cut mechanically: sowing, disinfecting, bandaging. "The arena. The . . . All the battling. The glory. For a while, it was enough to make me feel again. To be acclaimed for something. But it is no longer working. It is empty. Is that all I can truly excel at? Am I only a killer?"

"Henry, you . . ." Kismet drew closer, sniffing, but he barely noticed it.

"I should have let it kill me. The stinger . . . I . . ." He broke off, his gaze drawn to the cliff outside her cave. "I want to fly. To fly. To—"

"Henry, you . . . do you have a fever?"

"What?" His head shot up. "No, no . . . I don't get sick."

"You most definitely have a fever," concluded Kismet. "You are practically burning."

"But I—"

"That's it." She left him no time to protest. "Take your medication and rest. There will be no more battles until this fever has gone down."

Achilles wanted to argue, to protest, but he had no energy. A wave of profound weakness overwhelmed him, and he leaned his head on the cool stone wall. Perhaps she was right, he thought as he fished for the waterproof container. Perhaps he was sick. The thought frightened him; he barely ever got sick, but . . . Shiver after shiver ran down his spine, and his hand trembled so much that he nearly dropped the bottle of antipyretic.

"You must hydrate." His water bag hit his uninjured leg. "Drink what is left in it, then I will refill it, and you will drink it again."

He could still not protest. What even for?

"Have you eaten anything today?"

For a moment, he considered lying, but she would see through him easily with her sense of smell. "Not hungry."

"You eat not because you are hungry, but because it keeps you alive," hissed Kismet as she made her way toward the spring to refill the water bag. "You will eat a number of beetles, and later I will go and get you some fish."

"But why?" He mustered the last of his strength to raise the water bag.

"I already told you—to stay alive."

Achilles did not look up. "Perhaps that is not worth it."

"Henry." He did not react. "I have already told you that I will not let you die, even if only for the sake of all I've invested in you. You are worth so much more than the bit of effort it takes to keep you alive, pup. This is nothing. You know that I would leap into that arena and prevent your death myself if that is what it takes."

"But why?"

"Because you are not done yet!" she hissed, voice breaking. Her eye was on him for a moment too long, revealing an expression of utter desperation that she quickly concealed. "Eat," she ordered a moment later. "Lest, you know, I will stuff it all down your throat."

***

Log . . .

There is no purpose. No meaning. I am devoid of everything. I crave light, but I cannot find any. There is no light anywhere to be found. Was there not light within me at one point? Was I not light?

I am crawling down a pitch-dark, silent tunnel, eagerly devouring every crumb of distraction, of otherness, that I find in my way, no matter how revolting it tastes or whether I am overcome with the immediate impulse to vomit it back out. I am disgusted with myself for it, but I cannot stop. I have to stay high. Stay high. Stay high. Stay high. Stay in this wretched play pretend where I can fool myself into feeling joy, even if only for a moment.

I want to feel joy again. I want to feel purpose. Did I not have a purpose? A goal? I had a . . . challenge. To be successful. And for an all-too-brief moment, it appeared as though I had prevailed. But the truth was that I failed and lost everything.

I want to fly, but I cannot. I cannot fly because I cannot change. Because I am no more than a walking corpse. Corpses don't walk, but I'm empty and hollow. And I do not want to walk. I don't want to move. When I touch my skin, it feels waxy and dead. Sometimes it doesn't even hurt.

Running in circles is eternal. It persists indefinitely in its infinite loop. There was an end to it on the island. I merely had to leave, but there was a voice back then that did not want me to leave. No matter how much I crave it, that voice no longer speaks to me.

When you have no purpose, you search, as someone once said. Who . . . said that? I should know this. Someone . . . said—about searching—that it doesn't always equal being out there in danger. That it means dedicating a portion of your life to preparing for what's to come. Is that not what he said? What . . . who said that? Why can I not . . . WHY CAN I NOT I MUST REMEMBER I KNOW THIS HELP HELP HE

I remember I he Henry lived. But I am not Henry. Something . . . happened. I remember "I" was someone . . . somewhere HOME, no?

Where was HOME?

Where . . . is HOME?

Who is . . . HOME. HOME. HOME. HOME. I'm not home now. I'm not safe now. I'm not . . . HENRY now. I truly am dead, no? Perhaps that is why I cannot die anymore. I am already dead . . . in Tartarus. Is it not my cycle of torment to strive for greatness only to lose it all? And then strive again, because that is what I do. I shall no longer try.

I remember . . . The reaper came to guide me. I . . . think I might have become lost along the way.

***

"Pup . . . what the hell are you doing?"

In and out. In and out. The water it had been . . . this lake, this water—this was where it had all begun, no? Or had it begun back on the island? At the cliff? Had he been doomed ever since?

"Henry?"

"Is betrayed me!" Achilles yelled, kicking the water and nearly tripping. His grip on Mys' handle loosened, and the dagger nearly slipped from his hand. "Ish all the lakes . . . s fault. Ish all sharted here. I'm certain it did. It's to take back what it did to me. I'd like you to say s . . . "forgive me", you hear?!" The walls resounded with his voice, but he was met with silence.

"Henry, you should be in bed," said Kismet with a scowl. "Is your fever down? You slipped away before I could—"

"Go way!" he yelled, twisting toward Kismet. Although he was certain that he held Mys tightly, the handle that he had recently covered with fabric unexpectedly slipped from his grasp. If she hadn't dodged it at the last second, it would have most likely made contact with her.

"Henry, be careful!" she exclaimed, not leaving him out of sight as he let himself fall into the shallow water. "Go way . . ."

"Henry, are you . . ." She stepped closer and sniffed. Achilles covered his ears with his hands, not wanting to listen. "Are you drunk?!"

"Hmm . . . noo." While his eye bore into her, he struggled to stay upright as everything around him began to spin. "I'm not . . ."

"Pup!" Ignoring his attempts to resist, she jerked him up by his collar remorselessly. "The day has barely started and you—!"

"You shhould lemme go . . . You're not gonna lettgo, are you . . . ?"

With a sigh, she shook him disapprovingly. "No, I will drag you back to my cave so you can sleep this off. And then, I will sit you in a corner to reflect on your actions." She glared at him. "Your breath is terrible. How did you even bring yourself to drink those root bitters? They are simply horrendous!"

He giggled, brushing her paw that still held him. "Ooh, it gesh better over time . . . and younow what? I really, really apreschiate what you do; did I ever tell you?"

"What do you mean it gets better over—wait what?" Frozen in surprise, she blinked at him, yet he managed to get his words out before she could speak.

"You're so awessome to putup with my . . . eh, I don't what I wouldo if you're not here now, so I really love you and shtuff thought I shhouldssay that assome point so here I go . . ."

With her eye widened in surprise, Kismet held her gaze on him for a few heartbeats and then proceeded to shake him again. "Flattery will not help you now. You claimed that you were using the alcohol for wound treatment only! Ha!"

Without further ado, she tossed him face-forward into the lake.

"H-Hey!" He emerged from the water, coughing.

"Do not "hey" me." She stared at him with a narrowed eye. "This is to temporarily freshen you up." Weakly, Achilles extended his hand toward Kismet, who begrudgingly snatched him up by the collar again. "Better?"

Achilles simply groaned, which she took as a sign of approval before she hoisted him onto her back.

"Moving forward, I shall make it a point to keep those alcohol bottles out of your reach. And why did you say "it gets better over time" earlier? Has this occurred before?!"

"Ooh it'sh not that bad," he mumbled, attempting to comb through his wet hair with his fingers. "Just now and then . . . I cannot fight, so I have to do something else, and you wanted me to stay off the stairs, and there isn't really anyshing . . ."

"Oh, certainly." Kismet sighed. "Under no circumstances are you getting access to that alcohol again. You can't waste your life on substances, not while I'm responsible for you. Henry, I understand that it might provide temporary relief for the pain, but it'll only make things harder in the long run, do you understand?"

"Life . . . what life?" he mumbled, yet she ignored him.

In the blink of an eye, they were already back at her cave, and she unceremoniously dropped him onto the floor. When he looked up at her, he prepared for another scolding, only to find that her gaze was filled with concern and sympathy. "Today is one of the bad days, no?"

"Longclaw says I have a challenge tomorrow," he announced instead of replying and shivered.

"You are not fighting when sick," issued Kismet immediately. "Strip out of the wet clothes and lay down. Perhaps you'll even feel better when you wake."

He glared at her from across the room as she began to collect the standing-around root bitters bottles. He contemplated whether it was worth attempting to slip away undetected. It just might be.

***

Sensing the golden blade of Mys sinking into the bone gave Achilles an inexplicable sense of serenity. His hand hovered over the almost-finished piece; he could mold the material into any shape he pleased now.

Initially, his attempts at carving something out of the countless bones and teeth he had collected in his arena bounty had looked like deformed mishaps. However, like every other skill, this one could also be honed.

A rook. The pointed end of his blade plunged into the soft material, creating a white rook. It resembled the one that had shattered. He sliced off the remaining bone with one swift motion and refined the jagged edges. The newly fashioned chess piece glinted in the flickering torchlight, causing him to even crack a smile.

"It seems that you have kept your promise and delivered a new chess piece. This one looks quite acceptable."

His eye shot up and locked onto Kismet. She had just ascended the cliff and now stood in front of him, her vision aid raised.

"I may even make more." He twisted the rook between his fingers. "If you're open to it, I could craft a whole new set for you, far more appealing than your current dull one." A surge of unanticipated energy coursed through him and he offered her a heartfelt smile.

"Oh, is that so?" Kismet smiled back, then stretched out her paw. He handed the piece over, and she inspected it, then gave an approving nod. "Your skill has truly improved. I cannot wait to lay my eyes on that chess set soon."

"Perhaps." His smile fell. "If I get around to it."

"But now you must," she said. "Now you promised. While I certainly appreciate your talent, what may we do with the set of figurines depicting different species you have carved so far? Play with them?"

"Those were for practice purposes."

"Indeed." She handed him the bone back. "And now that you have practiced up, you may as well use this skill to create something practical, no?"

"I may . . ." He set the rook down. "If that is what you need me to do."

"This is not about me needing something," she retorted. "It is about you, and—"

"May I show you something else?"

She came to a halt, and Achilles rummaged through his bag beside him to retrieve a figurine he hadn't yet revealed to Kismet. Her gaze narrowed as she cautiously accepted it from him and examined it closely. "This is outstanding! I saw that you had talent, but I did not know that you were capable of something like this."

"I carved his opponents, so I thought it only fair to carve him as well . . . Achilles."

Kismet stared at him pensively. "Is that . . . your name?"

"It is."

A moment of silence elapsed. "He looks like a champion worthy of . . . what is it now? Thirty-three?"

"Four."

"Thirty-four consecutive victories."

"Kismet?"

She lifted her eye from the figurine, which bore an uncanny resemblance to Achilles' own features. "Yes?"

"I am not the only one who holds that name, am I?"

Slowly, she shook her head.

"Then . . . I would like to hear the rest of his story," he said. "Of the other Achilles. Having assumed his name, I should be privy to the complete truth."

Deep in thought, she stared into the distance before eventually sitting down next to him and gently positioning the figurine on the ground, directly in front of Achilles. "You may be right," she said. "I have my book not on me, though."

"Tell it to me without the book."

"Fine," she said. "We left off at the Trojan War, no?"

"We left off at the part where Achilles refused to engage in battle due to his own indulgences. In turn, his closest friend disguised himself as Achilles to deceive the Trojans."

"Right." Kismet stared at the figurine pensively. "So, despite being fooled by the charade, it is crucial that Patroclus—so was the name of his friend—was not Achilles and lacked his exceptional battle prowess. Thus, while his plan successfully compelled the Trojans to retreat in fear, it was ultimately Prince Hector of Troy who saw through the deception and . . . struck Patroclus down."

Achilles felt a chill run down his spine, but he remained silent, fixing his gaze on his own lifeless, ivory features.

"After the death of his friend, Achilles . . . went mad with grief. Regardless of its cost, the scheme had at least driven Achilles back into battle, viciously obliterating each and every foe, all while searching for Hector."

His mind reeled back to how many he had killed in the arena so far. Not thirty-four . . . he had been allowed to spare a good amount. But at least twenty.

"Ultimately, Achilles issued a challenge to Hector, and after emerging triumphantly, he took Hector's body and tied it to his chariot. He then proceeded to drag it around the city of Troy not once, but ten times."

"Serves him right!" Achilles blurted out, and Kismet raised a figurative eyebrow.

"To die for killing Patroclus? That is debatable," she said. "Yet to be mutilated so atrociously after death?"

He ran his fingers over the figurine, causing it to fall over. "Well . . ."

"Is it not true that Achilles' own actions led to the demise of his friend?"

Achilles sat frozen in place, feeling an overwhelming urge to shield his ears and scream at the top of his lungs. Perhaps he should not have asked. Now, he yearned for the silence of ignorance. Yet he remained still.

"Is it not true that, had he not disregarded his duty, the lives of both Patroclus and Hector could have been preserved?"

"Be still!" he hissed, pulling his legs to his chest. He wrapped his arms around them, burying his face to conceal his turmoil. "I comprehend your point. Now be still! Right now, I have no tolerance for being lectured."

"I was not lecturing you."

He did not reply, feeling as though she knew exactly what had prompted him to say this.

"It is quite unfortunate that we oftentimes learn our hardest lessons in retrospect. When it is too late."

He brought his hands up to his ears, and only with the utmost willpower could he prevent a scream. "I said that I cannot tolerate a lecture right now!" he screamed.

"You wanted to hear the story."

"I meant to confirm that my name was a fine choice," he hissed. "And so I did. There is hardly a more fitting name for one like me."

"So, I suppose," she said. "And from what I hear, they come from the furthest corners of the Underland to see your rage."

***

Log . . . something

It has been . . . forty battles now. Forty victories. Which means I've been fighting . . . raging for at least ninety days now. If not more. There were weeks without battles altogether; those weeks I barely remember.

Actually, I barely remember any of it. It is . . . Spending ninety days on training for the threshold was different. It felt different. Shorter. This only feels never-ending, like this is my eternal fate. My eternal punishment.

Perhaps I was wrong and my cycle is not falling. I am here with them all, in Tartarus. With Sisyphus, the mastermind who deceived death. With Tantalus, the prideful king who fed his own son to the gods. I am Henry is here . . . Henry, who behaved selfishly and negligently, who believed himself to be impervious to the demands of exile. To be better. He has committed hubris too, and now it is his fate to battle for all eternity, for the entertainment of . . . his enemy. Undoubtedly, there exist more undesirable fates.

Earlier, I became aware that it has been a year now. A year of . . . A year since I have fallen. Since I have first felt the desire to not . . . live. To be free. To be back home. To see myself and not a total stranger when looking into a waterfall.

Now I stare at a figurine of myself and try to think back, to imagine what my younger self would say if he could see me now. He who asked himself if he could only change as much as he allowed himself to change. Have I allowed this? Have I chosen this? I do not dislike the face of Achilles, but is he who my younger self aspired to see, a year from then? Would he even . . . recognize me?

***

"I believe that this occasion will be truly exceptional."

Longclaw's words barely registered with Achilles as he surveyed the stack of goods they had gifted him as a reward for his latest victories. He couldn't help but question the usefulness of all these possessions.

"As it happens, up next is your fiftieth battle."

"And before we all know it, it will be my hundredth." Achilles shrugged. "Then my thousandth."

"Aren't you confident?" Longclaw snarled. "I suggest we wait and see if you make it through battle fifty. I assure you, it will be exceptional."

"Certainly," he said to Longclaw's face, but in truth, no battle was exceptional. They had all blurred together after a while, and whoever his opponent was—Gnawer, Stinger, Pincher, Spinner, Buzzer, Twister, or whatever else they would find to pin against him next—he had fought it all. There is a method to victory against everything, Kismet persistently preached. And when he had faced his first non-Gnawer opponent, on his tenth or so battle, Kismet had altered their training routine to equip him for future battles of a similar nature . . . When she found he was well enough for training, at least.

Checking his forehead out of habit, he was relieved to find that his fever had subsided and his wounds from the recent battle were healing well. He had grown so accustomed to pain that it had become a part of him; he couldn't remember the last time he had been completely pain-free. Pain . . . it was his companion, a continuous, looming presence that he could either ignore or embrace.

"We shall see," he said to Longclaw, grabbing only the container with torch fuel, as well as some bones and fabric. "May you stash the rest for me here somewhere?"

The arena master immediately waved over some of his minions to take care of it. Despite dismissing it, Achilles had an inkling that Longclaw's gaze held a hint of added contemplation as he watched his most legendary champion ascend toward the lake and his dwelling.

"You did well today," Kismet greeted him back at the cave.

"It is no longer particularly hard." He absentmindedly deposited the materials and gave a dismissive shrug. "Hey . . . Could you kindly back off?"

She sniffed one more time and then did as he asked. "I am merely making sure that you do not drink again when I'm not looking. How fares your lower arm? You took a hit, no? And your face . . . Henry, be cautious, or you might end up losing your other eye too."

Without any concern, he shrugged and uncorked the bottle of alcohol. Swiftly, he submerged a clean piece of fabric in the liquid and firmly applied it to the two newly inflicted cuts through his left eye, where claws had torn through. These wounds intersected with the two horizontal slashes on his cheek, inflicted by previous opponents. "I have since refrained from drinking," he said, putting down the cloth. "And this is hardly worth mentioning."

"You cannot deter me from checking anyway."

Achilles barely listened; his eye was on yet another fresh bandage. It was . . . nothing. Absentmindedly, his hand brushed against a newly formed scar on his lower arm, then moved on to the one right beside it. These scars were in different stages of healing, displaying varying shades of pink. However, as he unwrapped the bandage encasing his right arm to assess the progress of the injury sustained during his battle the previous week, he suddenly halted.

White . . . Hardly any of his scars bore that color. They were all too recent . . . but not these.

He stared at the tangled web of white lines that crisscrossed his right hand. They always eluded his comprehension, and he had yet to successfully count them. He had attempted it many times, but . . .

"Your scars are a sight to behold. I wish you would not have to bear a single one of them."

"They are only scars." He could not avert his gaze from the jumbled network of white lines and clenched his fist. Was it not . . . supposed to close around something? Something . . . He could not . . . wanted not to remember, yet a memory clawed its way back into his mind at the sight of the scars. But it was not . . . real, was it? It could not be real. He was Achilles now, and Achilles had no such memories.

Sinking down onto the floor, he propped up his torch and leaned against the wall, proceeding to search through his bag until he retrieved the figurine of himself. Staring back at him was a face as frigid as stone, partially veiled by a wicked mask adorned with horns. A hand firmly clutching a sword, with a mouth wide open to unleash a harrowing battle cry. This was his essence. Who he was.

A sudden chill ran down his spine. This was his identity—an unrelenting champion destined to battle for all eternity, for the entertainment of others. His thumb mindlessly traced the outline of the figurine. Would he ever lay eyes on anything beyond the confines of this cave, this immediate vicinity?

He had once spoken of such grand adventures that Kismet had called him Odysseus. He stared at the figurine, telling himself that Achilles was not an adventurer. And he was Achilles, not Odysseus . . . was he?

"Henry, what . . . what are you doing?!"

He paid Kismet no mind when she rapidly approached.

"Henry . . . stop, please! It was so beautiful—"

"It was not." With little opposition, Mys forcefully dug into the bone, peeling away layer after layer until the figurine became unrecognizable. He mercilessly plunged the blade into the ivory face, creating a void where his own features used to exist. "It was empty and loathsome," he said tonelessly. "It is not what . . . what . . ." He inhaled, the remains of the figurine trembling in his clenched hand. "I do not . . . I despise it." Over and over again, he mercilessly stabbed the blade into the figurine's abdomen.

"It did not deserve to be defaced in such a manner," mumbled Kismet.

"It deserves much worse," replied Achilles. "It . . . He must die. Die. Die." Finally, the relentless blade cracked the figurine apart.

"If you loathed it so much, you must make a new one." Had he not felt the tremor in her voice, he may have missed it. "One that you do not loathe."

His gaze flew up and in the same moment, Mys' tip became caught in the remains of his figurine. His fingers lost their grip and the tightly bound cloth around the handle started to unravel.

"Shit," he cursed, tugging at it desperately, but all it took was one firm pull and the outer layer of fabric tore off, revealing—

"How about this piece?" Kismet held up a fresh bone. "It is smooth and large; it will make for a nice figurine."

But Achilles did not hear. He was transfixed by the sight of his dagger's hilt. Is that the best you can think to do with it? What good will it even do on that hilt?

The voice penetrated his ears, drowning out Kismet's words. His finger quivered as he brought it closer to brush against . . . He had sometimes questioned if it truly existed beneath the fresh layer of fabric, but . . .

A knot of indescribable emotions tightened in his stomach, followed by a spear of raw panic. His eye became transfixed by the strip of black fabric—the same fabric he had . . . Abruptly, Achilles sprung to his feet, causing the destroyed figurine to slip from his lap as he staggered toward the cliff's edge. The dagger in his hand burned like a freshly lit ember.

"Henry, what are you doing?!"

This dagger . . . this despicable dagger! Had he never cut it off he would be dead now. He would be dead, and not . . . Hey! If you lose it, you will not have a replacement.

Perhaps this was it. His hand tightened its grip on the handle. Perhaps this was the line he had to draw—the last tether to who he had once been. Perhaps if he severed it now, all the memories and associations with the blade would finally cease to haunt him.

As he neared the cliff's edge, a tear slid down his cheek. Why was he keeping the dagger? It wasn't his to keep; it belonged to Henry. Who had ever given him permission to so much as hold it? He had no claim to it, thought Achilles, nor did he crave it. And so, with all his might, he hurled the dagger over the edge.

The piercing clang of its impact reverberated in his ears, as at the same time, Kismet's tail encircled his waist. Side by side, they watched as the once beloved dagger tumbled into a crevice and glided into a narrow crack at the far end of the cave, vanishing from sight.

The tightening of Kismet's tail caused him to step back from the edge, and it was only when he peered down that he understood how narrowly he had avoided a fall. The air was heavy with silence until Kismet finally spoke: "Why did you do that?" she asked.

Despite his best efforts, Achilles found himself fighting the tears that had welled up in his eye. "It was not mine," he whispered. "It was . . . Henry's. I did not . . . not . . ."

" . . . deserve it?"

His silence that ensued said it all.

***

Log something . . .

I'm not going back. It's not home. I have no home. For a while, I thought out here could be home, but it is not home. Not anymore. I want to go home. Home . . . home. Please someone take me home

Sometimes I think I may run away so as not to be a burden on the last individual pitiful enough to bother herself with me. I feel like a piece of shit for thinking I've lost everything, because then the face of Kismet appears, and she is not nothing, and I have not lost her. She is the last one remaining in this world who I can afford to love. But she's also not home. She keeps me alive, but she can't fill the void. With every scar I collect, I just feel more shattered.

I know she tries, and I want to pay her back somehow, but as hard as I try, I can't ever make this . . . make her home. It's not me. It's not really "me" here. What is "me"? How do I know? Nothing terrifies me more than discovering that this is who I truly am.

But I cannot bring myself to leave either. And every day I spend here, I am just another irritation for her. Keeping me alive makes work for her, and I don't want that. I don't want to be a burden to anyone. Just leave me alone! Leave me alone to rot and die so that I don't have to burden you with

Perhaps this battle—this upcoming fiftieth battle that Longclaw is so eagerly anticipating . . . Perhaps on that occasion, I can finally go through with it and allow myself to die as the figurine died. As the dagger died.

It feels more and more like the only option I have left.