ACHILLES + PATROCLUS [p. jackson]

0.2: YOU WOULD THINK I WOULD REMEMBER A WAR

Okay, so I may have changed part of the narrative of 'The Iiliad' to be better in my idea.

•

RIP WAS QUITE CERTAIN THIS WAS A BATTLE HE HAD NEVER FOUGHT. Yet here he was, at the head of a throng of soldiers in gleaming bronze armour and determined looks etched into their features.

"Achilles?" A voice calls out, and without control of his body, Rip turned his head towards his left. I'm not Achilles, he wanted to proclaim, yet the words caught in his throat as he looked down at his body.

It was not that of the young teenager he was, far stronger and darker-skinned then he normally was. That wasn't right either.

All the descriptions Rip had read of the Greek hero (much to the chagrin of his fellow Romans, he found them fascinating) described him as quite light-skinned. It was Patroclus who-

But that doesn't make any sense! His internal voice proclaims, trying to get his lips to move, but they were stiff. Why was he called Achi-

A terrifying realization hit him as his body and mouth moved without any thought behind it. Why would his dreams take him here, to the end of a life, one painful and horrible, and tragic in every sense of the word?

Of course, he was the descendant of the god of prophecy, yet this was the past, far from the present.

The fear was building inside of Rip (Patroclus?) as this body released a battle cry that was echoed by those around him, and with that, they charged forward, weapons at the ready.

All Rip could do was watch in terror as his body cut through the throng of soldiers with incredible precision and grace, not unlike he had seen him and his friends accomplish through great effort.

He felt none of the pain, but watched as blades caught his arms and tugged against the glistening armour that was a little too big for him, yet nobody seemed to notice the great hero of the Trojan war was not who he said he was.

Of course nobody knows, his mind echoes around. Nobody knows until he falls.

A strange sensation runs through him, as of every bit of luck slipped out of his brain, like a flame winked out. Lord Apollo, please! Don't let him die this time! Of course, the gods could not hear him, nor did they really care, he imagined.

A whistling sound cut through the air, and a scream cut through the noise of the war, and it took Rip a few moments to realize it was coming from within himself.

There was no pain, but he looked down, like something out of those stupid comedies Dakota loved to force the soldiers to watch, yet there was nothing funny about seeing a spear lodged between the plates of his shoulder piece.

Some of the men around him were rushing forward, mouths moving, calling out for him, yet Rip seemingly had gone deaf in fear. He watched in almost slow motion, detached even, as another spear pierced his stomach, from a faceless man in front of him, though he knew who it was. Romans idealized the Trojans, they were, by definition, their ancestors, and Hector was one of the greatest.

The spear was torn out of him with enough force to pull him forward. Hector stepped away, letting Rip fall face-first into the blood-stained ground. Despite the facelessness, Rip could tell that Hector was smug.

"The mighty Achilles has fallen!" He proclaims, aiming a kick towards the stomach wound. Hector leaned down, tearing the helmet from his face. A confused noise escaped Hector, because apparently, he blind enough to believe his prone figure was that of the mighty hero.