Aeneas, Hero of Troy
Submitted for the 2025 Forest & Fawn Mythology Writing Challenge.
In this challenge, participants are given 10 days to write an original short story of 2000 words or less. In addition to the theme (in this case, “Mythology”), three specific prompts — announced on Day 1 of the challenge — must be incorporated. The three prompts were as follows: something that changes the map, a conversation held without words, and someone wrongly accused I hope you enjoy :).
Carthage, 1193 BCE
It was summer in Carthage. The oppressive heat of the Mediterranean sun bore down mercilessly, driving most citizens indoors and the rest to the brink of insanity. Aeneas and Achates were among the lucky ones, sheltered within one of the meeting rooms of Queen Dido’s clifftop estate. The queen’s servants brought them iced wine with honey and supplied them with a room that boasted a northern-facing window. A heavenly breath of wind passed through the wooden slats. Outside, the sea stretched into an endless blue.
Achates watched his friend, a frown pulling at his lips. Arms folded, he leaned one shoulder against the wooden door frame. “Aeneas, you must be reasonable.”
Aeneas’ wine goblet went sailing across the room, clattering loudly against the map mounted to the wall. The artifact was massive, covered in carefully inked details of Africa’s northern shoreline. The city of Carthage, Queen Dido’s stronghold, stood out with rare violet ink. Red streaks now stained its intricate surface, distorting the linework. Aeneas did not even watch its impact as he slumped into his chair.
“Is that how we’re handling this?” Achates mused, pressing his back to the stone wall. “No matter. I’m sure your lover won’t mind that her city’s coastline appears to have receded a few thousand paces. What need does a queen have of a good map?”
“What in the hells am I supposed to do, Achates?” When Aeneas finally spoke, he did so through gritted teeth, his head in his hands. The two had fought side by side in the Trojan War — become heroes through battle and bloodshed — yet Achates had never heard his friend sound so pained. The walls seemed to shrink around him.
“I’m afraid that answer is yours alone to claim, brother.” Achates crossed the room. He sidestepped the table that stood between them and placed a firm hand on Aeneas’ shoulder, leaning in close. “But it’s as you said: the winged god was sent to you by Jupiter himself.”
Aeneas lifted his head from his hands. “He wants me to leave her, Achates: Dido, Carthage, and all the peace we’ve found here.”
“To fulfill your destiny,” Achates exclaimed, the awe apparent in his voice. “To establish an empire.”
“Fuck the empire!” Aeneas roared, his cheeks flushing red. “I fought for my country! I coated my blade in red and barely escaped with the lives of my men. Seven years we sailed, Achates. Seven years. If the gods willed my glorious destiny, could the Venti not have filled our sails? Could Jupiter not have instructed his brother to guide our ships to the fabled shores of Italy?” Aeneas’ words grew frantic, desperate. “I love her, Achates. I gave Dido my sword. I…I lay it at her feet. I wanted to leave it behind me, to give my men a place to lay their heads. I wanted…”
His staggered breaths gave way to sobs. Aeneas, hero of Troy, whose very blood glimmered with divinity, shook violently with grief. His friend pulled him into an embrace, the endless stream of tears soaking through his tunic.
“Tell me what to do,” Aeneas choked, fingers curling into the fabric. “Tell me what I must do.”
“You will instruct your men to ready the ships in secret,” Achates answered without hesitation, his voice steady. If Aeneas could not find his resolve, he would lend him his own. “Hide your grief and your reasons. You are their captain, champion of the Olympians. They will obey.”
“But what of Dido?” Aeneas whispered, as if the Queen might hear her name on the breeze and appear.
“You must tell her, of course. But do so when the time is right, when her mood is light.” Achates rested a hand atop Aeneas’ head. “One does not become the Queen of Carthage without claws, and I fear hers are sharp.”
***
Nightfall
The night was dark, clouds obscuring the guiding light of Diana’s moon. Blackness stretched endlessly, the line between sky and sea blurred. Aeneas stood at the stern of his ship, eyes fixed on the distant Carthaginian coastline. A massive pyre poured grey smoke into the skies. He heard Achates’ footsteps approach, but his gaze did not drift from the flames.
Achates stood by his friend and waited.
“She accused me of lying,” Aeneas said, his voice nearly lost in the wind.
Achates furrowed his brow and scoffed.
A deep, pained sigh passed through Aeneas’ lips. Knuckles white as seafoam gripped the railing. He swallowed. “She claimed I did not love her. That I never loved her.”
His voice sounded hollow. Gone was his godly aura, his innate presence. In the soft moonlight, face grim and eyes swollen, one could mistake him as a full-blooded mortal, rather than the beloved son of Venus, goddess of beauty. He looked small amidst the vast, rolling seas.
A heavy silence lingered. Ocean waves crashed rhythmically against the hull of the ship. Aeneas slowly shook his head. “She was wrong.”
Of course she was, Achates thought. It was written all over the man’s face.
Aeneas sighed once more, his chest shuddering with the effort. The red light of the funeral pyre reflected in his black, almost lifeless eyes. It was as though he was looking into the Underworld itself: darkness and pain unending. Only then did Achates understand. The pyre was immense and magnificent — befitting of a queen. He reached out a calloused hand to clasp the back of Aeneas’ neck.
A gust of wind howled. The sounds of whipping sails and clattering ropes rung through the night. Aeneas’ lip quivered.
Together, they stood and watched the pyre burn with Dido’s fury — passionate, obstinate, and raging.
***
The Underworld
The Underworld had a way of deceiving the senses: time and space distorted, stretching minutes into hours and miles into inches. Even one’s own eyes could not be trusted. The journey there was taxing and dangerous; Aeneas commanded his men to stay behind, but they would hear nothing of it. The hero came in search of guidance from his father, as heroes often do. With every turn, he caught some semblance of the man: a shadow, an echo of a voice calling for him. Each one wore at his nerves. But despite his weariness, Aeneas stayed vigilant. He had heard enough chilling tales of the dark god’s domain.
And yet, in all the haunting trickeries he faced, none gave Aeneas pause like the silhouette of the fallen queen of Carthage.
She looked as lovely as the day he met her. Her dark curls were pinned around her crown, loose tendrils framing her jawline. Long robes, abnormally still, cascaded over her statuesque frame. Her pale skin glowed. Even in the darkness, jewelry marking her undying royalty glittered on her wrists and neck. This was no vision; no hallucination could ever capture her with such likeness.
Queen Dido was here.
Aeneas longed to call out to her, but there was no need. She stared at him, unflinching.
A smile pulled at his cheeks. He half-expected her to run to him — to close the space between them in a burst of laughter, as she used to. Memories flashed of her curling into his arms, lamenting the daily trials of her station, leaning in to kiss away the sweat from his temple.
Then he remembered the night he left her, and why she was here. The phantom smell of smoke filled his nostrils. His smile faded instantly.
He opened his mouth, but words failed him. What could he say? What apology would be enough to explain away his greatest regret, the most insidious of betrayals?
He stared at her, hoping her expression might inspire something, anything. And yet her reaction only deepened the deafening silence. She was not angry; she was not even upset. She was perfectly, painstakingly, mercilessly indifferent.
Aeneas nearly collapsed under the weight of his guilt. He teetered at the edge of the chasm between them, suffocating on the stale air, certain the Underworld would swallow him whole. His journey would end. He would die here under the empty, hollow gaze of the woman who once loved him.
Tears poured down his cheeks as he fell to his knees. He reached a hand out to her, unable to stop himself.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He couldn’t say it, but surely she knew. Surely she could see the remorse in every line of his face.
Still, she watched him.
Her robes shifted with movement; the breath halted in Aeneas’ chest. Perhaps his shameless, repentant display had swayed her. Perhaps, at last, she might forgive him. Then, then he could find peace. Did he not deserve peace? Had he not suffered enough?
His hope disappeared as soon as it arose, like the flash of green at the moment of sunset. She moved — but not towards him. Her face remained as cold and distant as the peaks of Mount Ida as she turned away. No words were spoken, but they did not need to be. Just as she had cut him to the bone without a blade, she said all she needed to say without a word.
Then, she was gone. And Aeneas was alone.
“Aeneas!” Achates called, rushing forth from the darkness. “Are you alright?”
Aeneas simply shook his head. Achates would see the gesture as a dismissal — the mighty hero of Troy shrugging off a glancing blow — and Aeneas let him.
***
Olympus
Aeneas sat rigidly upon a massive golden chair, drinking the most saccharine beverage he could conceive of. It was vile. His heavenly grandfather’s voice boomed, sending rumbles of thunder through the endless blue skies of Olympus. Aeneas blinked against the unrelenting brightness of the celestial mountaintop.
“The mortals will sing of your epic deeds for generations,” Jupiter declared from his throne. He lounged in a way that only the god of gods could. The sun’s beams appeared to adjust their trajectory, if only to better flatter his muscular frame. “I have instructed Apollo to strike inspiration in the first poet he deems worthy of your tale.”
Aeneas was silent. Jupiter would assume it was in deference to his glory, which suited Aeneas just fine.
“Naturally, I was always apprised of your accomplishments,” he continued with a hearty chuckle. “Nothing in this world escapes my notice.”
From the corner of his eye, Aeneas saw Juno, queen of the gods, roll her eyes. It was well known that the pair were prolific adulterers, each of them relishing in the secret affairs they kept from each other. Aeneas dared not look upon her. Juno was humorless and spiteful, notoriously vicious — and Jupiter equally jealous. He could not afford for such a look to be misunderstood by either.
“Tonight, you will recount your glory for the rest of Olympus. Bacchus’ wine will flow, our bellies will fill, and the merriment will thrust us into the morning!” Jupiter raised his goblet, red liquid sloshing violently onto the pristine marble floor. Aeneas averted his gaze. Unphased, Jupiter looked expectantly to the figure at his right, whom Aeneas recognized immediately as the messenger god Mercury.
“I’ll let the others know,” Mercury affirmed. He excused himself with a glib wink before launching into the air, winged boots fluttering.
Jupiter, god of gods, stroked his long white beard, little crackles of electricity bursting from his fingertips.“I know you faced great trials,” he proclaimed, as though it were a point of pride — then, with a great sweeping gesture, added, “But tell me, grandson, Hero of Troy, Slayer of Kings, look around you: was it not worth it?”
Aeneas’ mouth went dry. The ambrosia felt too thick; it clung like ash on his tongue. He felt exposed in the crisp atmospheric air. Despite the cool breeze, a bead of sweat gathered at his temple. He felt the queen's stare upon him then: potent, tangible, and brimming with something that felt like pity.
When Aeneas finally spoke, the words left his lips like stones sinking into water: “Of course it was.”
