We Die Forgotten

Not by strength of arm did Troy fall, but by cunning.

Walls that withstood years of siege opened to a lie, while far from the battlefield a girl’s blood darkened the altar so ships might sail. Victory demanded a price long before the first spear was thrown.

Thousands crossed the sea chasing honor. Few found it. Most found graves.

They fell nameless along Ilium’s shore, their ambitions extinguished in dust and flame. Their shadows drift now through Hades’ hollow halls, where glory has no voice and fame carries no weight.

Hector fell beneath Achilles’ rage, and Achilles soon followed, undone by a single arrow. Ajax, mightiest after Peleus’ son, won the golden armor meant to crown greatness—yet lost everything else. Honor was denied him by clever words, and shame drove him to his sword.

Odysseus, master of schemes, gained what strength could not. He claimed armor, victory, and renown, while Ajax walked alone into death.

But the gods were not finished collecting their due.

Agamemnon returned home only to be butchered in his bath, payment for the daughter he sacrificed to purchase the wind. And Odysseus—the architect of Troy’s destruction—was condemned to wander ten long years, hunted by the sea itself.

Each turn of our voyage stole another life.

The Cyclops crushed men like insects.

Scylla snatched sailors screaming from the deck.

Foolish hunger drove us to slaughter Helios’ sacred cattle.

Yet the greatest danger waited on a quiet shore.

Circe’s island promised relief: meat, wine, warmth. Her magic dulled memory and softened resolve. Days dissolved into comfort while our captain lingered in a goddess’ bed and we forgot why we sailed at all.

A year vanished.

At last, reason returned. We begged to leave, reminding Odysseus of Ithaca, of Penelope, of the home we still dreamed of. Circe agreed—but not without cost.

“To return,” she said, “you must descend to the dead. Seek Tiresias in Hades’ depths. Only he knows the path denied you.”

I never heard this command spoken. Drunk and careless, I slept upon her roof. When I woke and rushed to rejoin the ship, I slipped, fell, and broke my neck. No song marked my passing. No grave held my bones.

Unburied, I drifted into darkness.

Persephone called me by name and drew me to her halls. There, trembling, I begged not to be forgotten—to be remembered when the living came seeking answers.

When Odysseus reached the land of the dead, I was the first to speak.

“Do not leave me behind,” I pleaded. “Return and burn my body. Let me be mourned.”

He swore he would. My spirit faded, finally seen.

In Hades, Odysseus witnessed the truth war conceals.

Agamemnon stood eternally bloodied.

Achilles raged at glory’s emptiness.

Ajax remained silent, honor unredeemed.

It was not Helen who launched a thousand ships, but the lie that death would be remembered.

Priam’s head shattered against stone. Children were hurled from walls. Women were claimed as spoils. Victors drank and boasted, clutched trophies, and crowned themselves legends.

Their names lived on.

We did not.

We—who marched, rowed, bled, and died—became whispers. Forgotten sacrifices paid so other men might be called great.

And still they call it glory.