He can not believe it. So overwhelming is the relief, the giddy ridiculous joy, that Achilles falls to his knees with it– only his sword propping him up. He had doubted, thought his spear throw from the ship a fluke, and even that first day of raiding something out of a dream, not real. Hunched over as he is, the smile that breaks out on his bloodied face is hidden, his shaking shoulders the only silent precursor to the laugh that follows. They can not touch him! Though they come at him in waves, though they surround him with their crude farmer’s weapons, they can not touch him, he is too fast– too good for them all. It is nothing at all like what Patroclus had described, neither the blood nor the gore turns his stomach, it does not make him weak.
He hated the whole affair, blood and violence turning his stomach and to see his lover among the gore rejoicing makes him question everything he knows. The chaos, the rush of bodies and the scent of blood are nauseating to the once royal. Which leads his thoughts to the knowledge of how different from those around him he was. No one else seemed effected as he was, disgusted with himself and his people. Murdering farmers and innocents in the place of their enemies. It’s no surprise to him.. They were a people ruled by what he saw on the field.
And he was as different from them as he could be.
While the others fought he had, he was only in the way, swimming in his armor and protected by Achilles. When it’s over, he’s exhausted and slumped over his shield. His eyes flicker to his golden prince and then quickly scan over the litter of bodies around him.
It scared him to realize that he had finally found where he belonged.
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