✕ Achilleia turned the spit upon which a duck was roasting, one that she had shot clean out of the air --- she had never been a bowman, but Achilles had been teaching her things. It was a long way between here and where they were going; the spare time had been filled with him teaching her things like that. Shooting. Fighting. Making her stronger, better. There didn’t seem to be a thing he was bad at; he was every bit the hero that he had been described as in so many thousands of songs. It kept her on her toes, learning new things... The exercise was good. She had been worried that she would grow weak and soft when stepping out of the gladiator life.
She turned her bright blue eyes to the ancient hero, the curiosity over his sudden existence once more long gone with how long they had been together now. She looked at him like one may look at a friend. That was strange in itself --- she hadn’t had a friend since before she was enslaved. The fire was hot on her cheeks, sparks rising up every so often as the wood collapsed on itself.
“Did you really kill Hektor of Troy the way that they write about it...?” she asked, having wondered about it for a while. “... I read that you had pushed a vicious hook through his heels and dragged his body that way. I read elsewhere that you had only tied his legs together.”