Patrochilles

V

The heat is what wakes me.

"Achilles," I moan, reaching for him. "I thought we took the blanket off."

I hate the sound of my own weakness, but the heat clogs my ears and stuffs itself down my eyes, turning me blind.

"Achilles," I moan, thrashing. The heat has stolen down my arms and legs now. "The blanket."

My fingers press against cool sheets, still rumpled from the night.

"Achilles?"

They drift downwards, scratching against wool pillows, now properly set in the bed.

I moan and pull my fingers back, clutching them to my stomach. It feels the wool has pierced them open. Now they bleed onto my skin.

Pain suddenly erupts in my head, and I gasp, sitting upwards. My eyes shoot open.

I reach forward, blood dripping, but he is not here.

Achilles. Achilles. Achilles.

The wooden chair to my left flickers from left to right, glitching across my vision. It is bare of its usual armor.

There is only a pair of folded undergarments on it. The gray to my white. I touch mine now.

Is that my tilting body? Do I begin to sway? Why yes, yes I do. That is me. I am him. Where does he hurt? I must go to him.

Achilles! Achilles! Achilles!

I lick my sore lips and shout his name, but he does not answer.

Instead, he appears on the battlefield 30 paces in front of me, a spear shot through his chest.

I choke, and he falls.

His blood is a crimson pool beneath him, fanning out. Horses tear by and flatten his golden hair.

I try to run to him, but my face falls sideways onto scratchy wool pillows, and my eyes swell closed.

My last thought is a sane one: Gods, please don't let him find me like this.