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Wrath

"Achilles." I call to him standing right at the threshold of his tent, not quite coming inside, but letting the outside in with me. I want to force him to hear the screams that I have had to endure the entire day. Multiple days, even.

He looks up, still absentmindedly plucking the strings of his lyre. "Ah, Patroklos, I have been wondering when you would come." He smiles, the same sweet smile he uses when he tries to get his way with someone, whether it is with slave girls or army generals. It will not work on me. "I have not seen you in a few days. Where have you been?" He turns his attention back to the lyre, tuning already tuned strings, not even waiting for my answer. His laid-back attitude forms such a big contrast with the events going on outside, it almost makes me want to tear that lyre out of his hands and drag him into the sands outside by his hair, but I manage to control myself.

"Our men are dying", I say, ignoring his attempt at conversation like he has been ignoring the war.

He looks up again, with feigned shock on his face. "Our men? That can not be true. Did I not instruct them to stay in our camp?" He flashes another innocent smile, signalling that he knows very well what I meant.

"Not our men, but..." I struggle to find the right words, the ones that he will not immediately reject, like the multiple peace offers he has rejected in the last few days. "Other Greeks. Fellow Greeks. They are dying and they need our help. Your help."

"Well, they are not my men, so that is not really my problem, is it? It sounds like you should complain to their own generals about it, not to me. Or maybe to Agamemnon. Yes, if you feel so strongly about those men, you should tell Agamemnon about it. It is all his fault, after all." He spits out the name of our general like it is the name of a deadly disease. It might as well have been. Agamemnon has caused more death and suffering in the Greek camp than all diseases combined. Just not this time.

"You of all people should know that is not true." I struggle to contain my anger, wanting to beat some sense into him. I am not dressed for battle, but even with my bare hands I could hurt him. The only problem is that he could hurt me more.

"No." The harshness of his voice does not seem to fit his relaxed expression. "You are wrong. It is his fault. All of it." He puts down the lyre and leans lazily against the side of the tent. "Gods", he whispers, brushing his golden curls away from his eyes. When he is out of armour, behaving like a teenager trying to seduce a lover, it is hard to imagine him as the killing machine that he is. "I am so tired of this conversation. Do you have anything fun to say, or are you just going to complain the whole time?"

"The Trojans are at the camp." I can see a slight shift in his body language, his muscles tensing for a moment, before he forces them to relax again. I should have said that earlier. "They have breached the walls and are killing Greeks like bugs." He opens his mouth to object, but I just raise my voice and keep going. "And even if you do not care about the other Greeks, the Trojans will be on this side of the camp soon enough and they will kill your men too. Your men, who are not ready for battle, because you will not let them fight. They will be slaughtered." I pause to let him say something now, but he stays quiet. "They are burning the ships. Even if we manage to survive this day, there will be no way for us to get home. We – you­ need to act now, before it is too late. Before everyone is dead, including you!"

I can see that struck a nerve. He is just as mortal as everyone else and he is just as much aware of it as them, if not more, since he knows he will not leave the grounds of Troy alive. He crosses the length of the tent before I can even see him get up – swift-footed Achilles – and stands before me, his dark eyes staring into mine. His angry expression matches the one of the monster he becomes on the battlefield.