A Gift from the Gods

12

The way Achilles glided through the sand was more an artform than a skill. He was leading a dance with every extension of his arm and shuffle forward or to the side. Opposite him, Patroclus had similar moves but lacked any grace. The wooden sword seemed heavier in his hand than in his cousin's, and the youth had yet to best Achilles.

"You tire so easily, and you think you are ready for battle," Achilles said.

The jest only forced Patroclus with more fervor and less skill. He was losing his footing and was soon on his back in the sand.

"You still have much to learn, dear cousin." Achilles took a swig from his jug of watered down ale.

"You need to pick your feet up," Zephyra said. She was enthralled with the interaction before her and saw similarities in Patroclus's form that she herself had to adjust under Hector's tutelage.

Patroclus laughed heavily and brushed the sand from his backside before addressing his cousin. "What does she know about combat?"

"Careful, cousin," Achilles said.

A challenge had been cast out, and Zephyra would not back down. She stood and tied the hem of her toga just below her knees for easier footing and gestured for Achille's practice sword. He shrugged and obliged. Zephyra was fueled by Patroclus's laughter, and he was distracted, surprised when she lunged at him, making a hit to his core. That stopped his laughing, and he took a defensive pose. She kept lunging, and Patroclus could barely keep up with her.

"Pick your feet up," she said, swooping down to knock his shins. "Pick them up!"

Her words kicked in, and Patroclus was able to gain footing taking the offensive. She was still able to match him, but he had immediately improved.

"Better," Zephyra said. "Now stop thinking of your sword as a tool. Something to hang onto. Think of it as an extension of yourself."

He loosened his grip and was better able to handle the tool. She was surprised he listened to her, but because he had, he would likely live to see the next war. Achilles circled them, likely sharing the same observations. She could sense his smirk, but more than that, his sense of pride. Not in Patroclus. In her? He knocked Patroclus to the side and took the sparring sword.

"Don't hold back," Achilles said.

"Never," Zephyra said.

She sparred harder than she had in her life, but she held her own. In a fleeting moment she saw the death of her brothers, her father, at the hands of this great warrior, and he was indeed a great warrior. The thought distracted her for only a second, but it was long enough for her to lose her flow and earn a smack to the backside. She should have been upset at losing, but she could only laugh.

"You fight well," Achilles said. "You may even be better than Patroclus."

His cousin scoffed at the words, jealousy flashing across his face.

"I'm far better with a bow."

Achilles tossed his sword to the side and reached for a spare bow and quiver of arrows. "Show me."

She took the set from him and pointed to the black sail of Achilles' ship a few dozen yards away, her mark. She knocked two bows, straddling the balance between showing off and proving her skill. She pulled the bowstring back in perfect form, holding still to feel the wind scatter across her body and adjusting accordingly. She tensed when Achilles came up behind her, pressing his body to hers.

"Don't let me distract you," Achilles said.

"Quite impossible. I feel you through your robes."

Achilles chuckled, his voice low in her ear. "Just breathe."

His hands grazed her arms, devouring her body in the most welcoming of touches. By the time she loosed her arrows, hitting her mark, his hands were around her waist, massaging her skin. He hummed in her ear, impressed with her shot, but he had a hunger only she could satiate. He lifted her and ignored Patroclus's smirk as they entered the tent.