Anagha Baheti

Achaikos grunted as the doctor reset his ankle.

The former king was surrounded by a team of medical professionals, working together to extend his life for a few more weeks. His son, Drakon, stood in a corner, conversing with their general. The look on his son’s face made Achaikos smile.

Drakon dismissed everyone and came and sat next to Achaikos. His son grabbed his hand and kissed his fingers.

“Tell me I didn’t waste five thousand men for nothing.”

“The declaration of surrender came an hour ago. Their terms seemed fair, so I agreed.”

“Good. Why are you here?”

“The doctors tell me there is a very good chance you will survive your injuries.” He sniffed. “But they also say there is a very good chance that you will never leave your bed.”

“Then you know what to do.”

“I do. But before that, why didn’t you tell me about the prophecy?”

“Who told you about it?”

“Does it matter? Father, why didn’t you do anything when the oracles told you that you would die at my hands?”

“What was I supposed to do, son? Kill my own child? What kind of father would do that?” Achaikos coughed. “Instead, I spent my life teaching you what was right… and I was right. I am so proud of the man you have become. You are, and always have been, my pride and joy. Now, relieve me of my misery.”

Drakon softly wept as he unsheathed his knife. Achaikos grunted as the knife penetrated his heart. As his life slipped away, as his breath became shallow, he reflected on a life well lived. How many people could claim to die without regrets? He smiled, even though he heard his son’s sobs echo through the halls.