Page 43 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“Not today.” The whetstone traced another slow arc across the bronze. “Nor tomorrow. In three days, we sail for home.”
Eudorus hesitated, his jaw clenching tight. Then he gave a sharp nod, withdrawing.
Moments later, the flap snapped open again.
Patroclus stood in the opening, breathing hard, his helmet clutched in one hand. Dark hair clung damply to his brow, and dust streaked his arms. “You will not fight?” he demanded. “Eudorus says we remain in camp again today.”
The whetstone paused. Achilles glanced up—just a flick of the eyes—then resumed his work.
“The front is crumbling.” Patroclus’s voice rose, growing tight. “Hector himself leads Troy’s charge. Ajax is holding the line from his knees while our ships burn in the bay. And you’re here—sharpening your sword?”
Another slow pass of stone over the blade.
“Let Agamemnon fight his own war.”
“This stopped being his war months ago,” Patroclus snapped. “It belongs to all of us now. Ours to win or lose, and you swore an oath to fight for Greece.”
Achilles met his gaze at last, eyes flat and cold. “I swore that oath upon my honor. And my honor wasdesecrated.” The word hissed between his teeth. “Ripped from me by Agamemnon, before every man in this camp.”
Patroclus stared at him. “This is still about Briseïs? You would let this war rot and countless men die over an insult from one man?”
An insult.
Anger bristled in him, but Achilles held it. Controlled it. It was more than an insult, they both knew it. For all his ignorance, even Agamemnon knew it. The entire army knew it.
They had clashed again and again, the warlord and the king, striking heads like two heavy-horned rams in the mountains. Briseïs had only been the final blow.
Agamemnon had forgotten who needed whom. He’d forgotten that some prowess, some wrath was unmatched. Now Achilles would remind him.
“I care nothing for war prizes.”
He rose slowly, like a storm rolling to its feet. The whetstone slipped from his hand. The blade in his grip whistled, newly edged.
“This is about honor,” he said. “About a king who thinks I am his hound. To be summoned at his call, unleashed when it suits him, brought to heel when it pleases him.” His gaze darkened. “Now, he learns the cost of that mistake.”
Patroclus’s jaw clenched. “And the men who followed you here? Thousands of them—we trained with them, bled beside them, ate from the same fires. They are dying without you.”
Achilles’s grip tightened. The blade stilled.
“That is the nature of war,” he said coldly.
Patroclus drew back, breath shallow, as if the words had struck him. “All for your pride?” he asked, voice raw. “To make one man suffer, you will let the rest of them pay in blood?”
“I am done being used,” Achilles snarled. “Agamemnon can choke on his arrogance. He can drown in the blood that follows.”
“He tried to make peace,” Patroclus said, nearly shouting now. “He offered gifts—gold, horses, apologies. You were wronged, yes. But how many lives will you trade for your pride?”
Achilles turned his face away. Silent.
“You speak of honor.” Patroclus stepped forward, his voice shaking. “But there is no honor in watching men die when you could save them. There’s nothing noble in letting them burn just to spite a king.”
“There will be other wars.” Achilles sheathed the sword, placing it beside his bronze armor where it hung on the stand. “Other chances to die. This one no longer concerns me.”
Patroclus stepped closer. “And what of me?”
Silence descended with heavy hands, carrying the weight of everything left unsaid.
Achilles stopped, growing still.
