Patrochilles

II

Sometime later in the night, I peer sideways at Achilles. His golden hair glints from the slight light pouring through our tent.

His eyes are closed, dark eyelashes fluttering against rosy cheeks.

Guess he was tired after all.

I snuggle closer to him, delighting in his warmth. I wish every night could be like this.

Outside, the Greeks' laugh softly around their campfires, roasting meat and boasting of our thousand ships.

It is peaceful, quiet.

Too good to last. A snatch of conversation drifts to my listening ears.

"Is it really that golden? That beautiful?" one soldier asks and the rest all coo, slapping each other.

"They say it flows like the Achelous, divine and beautiful!"

"Now that's a pretty piece of poetry if I ever heard one!"

The men guffaw at this.

I wince and dig my ear further into the pillow.

"No, no!" one shouts. "I've heard it gleams like fire ... especially in bed!"

This sets them off entirely, and they crow like roosters.

Panic and rage seize me, and I grip Achilles' arm, staring now, at his head of vulnerable curls.

"Patroclus? What is it?" Achilles asks sleepily. His hand drifts down to mine.

I bring a finger to my lips, even though I know he's too far gone to see. And hear. Thank the gods.

A soldier grumbles back. "Well, all I know is, she better be something, for me to be sittin' with the likes a' you."

She. She. I relax my hold on Achilles.

They talk of Helen's hair.

"One look, and they say pretty boy Paris was taken!"

"One strand, and she got'im wrapped around her little pinky finger!"

Rage fills me again. Do they not know the horrors that await them tomorrow? That my Achilles must face?

I cannot bear it. This might be our last time together.

"Okay," I whisper into the dark, and shift onto my side so that I'm facing him. "I think I'm ready now."

I gently shake him and his eyes pop open.