TIMEWALKER [wlw]

f i v e

- L -

I awake as I have done every day for the last week; curled up on a roughly woven mat, cuddling as close to Helen as is physically possible. My face is buried into Helen's shoulder, and I relish in the warmth she provides.

I slip an arm around her waist, snuggling further into her. My hand settles on the soft curve of her stomach, a stark contrast to the strong cut of her muscles.

"Good morning, darling," Helen mumbles, reaching to entangle her hand with mine. I bury a smile in her skin, trying to suppress my noises of happiness.

"Hello," I greet her, as she rolls over to face me, pressing a kiss to my forehead. My smile widens, dimples curving into my cheeks.

She leans forwards to kiss the corner of my lips, ignoring the pungent smell of my breath. A hint of pink colouring stains the skin over my cheekbones, and she chuckles lightly.

Helen hums a lyre's song, reaching out to trail a finger along my jaw. I shiver at her gentle touch, and a spark of amusement flashes across her face.

"Are you fighting today?" I ask her, gazing openly at the bright light captured in her blue eyes.

Her face darkens as she registers my question. Her hand falls from my face, and she averts her eyes from mine.

"Helen?" Worry creases the space between my eyebrows.

"This war needs to end," she tells me, her voice thick with emotion. A small tear slips down her cheek, and she coughs, reaching up to brush it from her skin. "It has stolen too many lives."

I swallow, taking her hand in mine. She meets my eyes once more, a shadow cloaking her features.

"One of my oldest friends found me yesterday--" she cuts herself off, voice choked. "He asked me to end the war. I told him that I could not; that Paris needed to be defeated."

She pauses, and I tighten my grip on her hands, giving her comfort in the only way I know how.

"He stopped fighting," she tells me. "He felt that if he was not fighting to protect me, he was fighting simply for the glory of bloodshed." Her expression is drowning in sadness, words lost beneath the weight of their meaning.

"Whatever happened as a result of that is not your fault," I murmur, realisation dowsing me in ice-cold water.

Helen bites at her lip, and carries on, her eyes doubting my disregard of her blame.

"We were drained of morale; many soldiers were falling simply from exhaustion and lack of hope," she continues, her mind lost in a world of blood and battle. "My friend's...companion, decided to step in. To bring back the confidence that the Grecian soldiers were lacking."

Helen's friend...His companion--

My mind begins to force connections between the two characters, and I wonder how I could have forgotten such a key part of this story. Achilles. Patroclus. An example of pride before anybody could have dreamed of the world two-thousand years from today.

"He was killed. My friend's...you." Her voice drops, and tears roll down her cheeks. "I face death every day, and I have never feared its touch. But now...now it is my greatest fear."

"Patroclus," I complete, aloud. Helen's eyes dart to my face, her mouth dropping open, and I wish I could shove the words back inside.

"You know his name?" Helen's eyes widen.

"People in the marketplace were talking about him and...Achilles?" I lie, over-pronouncing Achilles' name.

Helen visibly relaxes, the tension loosening from her limbs, "Oh." Then, "Yes, Achilles and Patroclus."