𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “Ashes of the Sun” By John Paul Reyven S. Anadilla

Layout by: Aldrin Balcoba

Published by: Aprilyn Sado 

Date Published: March 17, 2025

Time Published: 9:08 AM

Category: Prose

Theme: The agony of loving someone who is destined to burn out, and the haunting beauty of carrying their light within you long after they are gone.

Some people are born as embers—quivering, fragile things, waiting for a gust of wind to scatter them into nothingness. And then there are those who are 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘁𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 burning with an unstoppable intensity that compels the heavens to bow in awe, mesmerized by their light. 𝗛𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲 and I was 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘩 left in his wake—cold, empty, a remnant yearning to hold onto a warmth I was never meant to touch.

I didn’t know what to make of the way the air seemed to shimmer around him as if the world itself hesitated to touch him. “How strange,” I whispered once to the gods, those indifferent watchers who neither listened nor cared—“a 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 to be with an 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮.” The words hung in the air suspended like dew over a barren field trembling with implicit despair.

He possessed 𝗮 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘂𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗲𝘅𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘁. Where he stood, the colors were more vibrant, the air seemed sharper, and even the silence seemed richer. I once saw a sparrow land on his shoulder, its wings trembling as if it had mistaken him for daylight. Even in sleep, he burned—some incandescent thing, alive beyond the reach of ordinary life. In those hours before dawn I would sit beside him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. I didn’t wish to wake him for conversation only to witness the moment his eyes opened, to see the life rush back into him as if the universe itself had been holding its breath.

Yet, the gods are cruel to those who love too much. The first time he looked at me, 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗹𝘆 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗲𝗱, was beneath an olive tree heavy with fruit. Knees skinned from training, mouth full of apologies for existing too loudly in his space. A fig fell between us splitting open like a wound. His gaze—green as storm-lit seas—did not dismiss me. Did not pity. It unraveled me, stitch by stitch until I stood bare as a sapling in spring. In that sliver of time, I was no longer the boy shaped by silence and grief. 𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦, 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦.

When he smiled—it was like watching 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗵 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗻. How could anyone not worship the sun? And yet, how could anyone not curse it too, for its unbearable brilliance?

“I know you,” I wanted to tell him, but the words never found their way to my lips. And it was true—𝗜 𝗸𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝗵𝗶𝗺 𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗻𝗼 𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗰𝗮𝗽𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲. By touch, I could trace the scar along his shoulder. By smell alone, I could find him in any crowd. I knew the sound of his breaths, how they quickened with excitement and slowed when he was lost in thought. 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘮. He was stitched into my very soul—the thread searing as it pulled through.

But even 𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗽𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆.

The camp had fallen silent, with the customary clamor of soldiers replaced by murmurs. They told about a seer in the hills who predicted the deaths of kings. He went to her first, of course—pride always outpaced caution. I followed, my steps heavy as stones, already tasting ash.

Her tent sagged beneath a gnarled oak, its flaps stained with old smoke. Inside, the air clung thick and sweet, like honey left to spoil. She sat cross-legged, her eyes milky as a corpse’s. “Come closer.” she crooned, not to him, but to me. Her teeth were blackened stumps.

The prophecy came in gasps: “He will fall, not by blade” A coal popped in the brazier between us, spraying embers that died midair. “But by the fire he feeds. It will eat him from within.” Her gaze locked on mine sharp as a thorn. “And you, will hand him the kindling.”

With a sound akin to broken glass, he laughed. “You waste our time with riddles.”

But I felt her words take root in my ribs, a slow ache. That night, I woke screaming as the tent’s shadows writhed into flames. He slept on, breath steady, untouched by dreams.

It happened during the war—a tide of sorrow and fury that, like a mournful hymn, ceaselessly called out his name. I begged him not to go. “Stay with me,” I had pleaded. “Let the world rot. Let it all burn. Just stay.”

But his pride burned too fiercely to be extinguished. He pressed a kiss to my temple, his lips lingering like a brand, and said, “This is what I am. You know it as well as I do.”

The days blended together—never-ending conflicts, blood-and-dust-stained triumphs. Untouchable and bright, he fought as if sent by the gods themselves. However, I could see the cracks—the way his hands shivered when he believed no one was looking, the nightmares that made him gasp for air like a man who had drowned. He hid them behind that same blazing smile, one that still outshone every dawn.

I begged him to stop. “Leave it all behind,” I said. But he only shook his head.

“Do you think I fear death?” His voice was gentle but unyielding.

“No,” I whispered. “𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

His thumb brushing the apple of my cheek, he cupped my face—𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥. "Then make sure they remember me as I was, not as l am."

The day he died was clear and bright. A day for lemon groves and linen drying in the sun, not blood. He went ahead to scout the enemy lines, his steps steady and sure. I followed, my heart a tangle of dread and hope.

I found him surrounded—a snare laid by those who knew his pride would drive him forward without hesitation. The air reeked of iron and myrrh. He fought like 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀 burning with a ferocity that defied even fate. But even the fiercest flames can be smothered.

The first arrow struck his side. He staggered but did not fall. Another pierced his shoulder, then his leg. Still, he fought. Still, he burned—until his knees met the earth, as if in prayer.

In an instant, my hands were shaking and I was there, pressing on his wounds. "Stay with me.” I begged while my voice cracks from the weight of my sorrow. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

His smile, still as devastating as the first time I saw it found me one last time. Will you remember me? " he asked, his tone fraying like threadb cloth.

Tears clouded my vision. “I will know you even at the end of the world.”

His hand—weak but achingly familiar, reached for mine. “Then I am not afraid.”

And with that 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦—𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢.

I stayed there, kneeling in the dirt, long after his body cooled. The battle raged on, but the world had gone silent. I pressed my forehead to his, as if I could will my breath into his lungs, my pulse into his still heart. The blood on my hands dried to a crust, cracking like old paint when I finally moved.

The sun dipped below the horizon, staining the sky the color of a bruise. I thought of the fig, split open between us all those years ago. I thought of the sparrow trembling on his shoulder, mistaking him for daylight. I thought of the seer’s words: “You will hand him the kindling.”

I had. And now the fire was gone.

The world should have ended then. It felt as though it had.

I stayed by his side until the crows came, his skin cooled to the touch of marble. Long after the world moved on, I traced the scars he’d left on me—the burn on my palm from his dagger’s hilt, the ache beneath my ribs where his name lived.

At the end of the world, when the last star flickers and the dark comes for us all, I will know him. I will find him—no matter how far or how long I must search. Even if the gods tear the universe apart, 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳. I have memorized the shape of his light.

Because 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗹𝘆 𝗱𝗶𝗲𝘀.

War was over. Songs were sung. Men carved his likeness into stone, erasing the sweat, the trembling, the boy who bit his lip to keep from crying. I closed my eyes, however, and saw him in the solitude, when the breeze carried the smell of salt and cypress, not as the hero, but as he was in those golden moments between heartbeats.

𝗔𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲. 𝗠𝗶𝗻𝗲.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗻 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗿𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻.

IMAGE SOURCE:

Miller, M. (n.d.). The Song of Achilles. The Folio Society. https://www.foliosociety.com/media/catalog/product/a/c/acll_gallery-8.jpg?quality=80&fit=bounds&height=&width=&canvas=: