Spoils of War Chp. 1
Achilles x reader
Fandom: Troy (2004)
Summary: You swore you’d rather die than bend. He swore you belonged to him.
Warnings: 16+ eventual smut in chp. 2, she is literally his spoil, power imbalance the size of a warship, sleeping tied to his bed oops, men being gross (but not him), protector dynamic incoming, gore/injury (it's the Trojan War babes), enemies-to-something, accidentally catching feelings?? staring contests that could kill <3
A/N: ok so this is part 1 out of 2, cuz when I was writing I got (very) carried away lmao, so what was originally gonna be a short-ish fic has now had to be split into two parts. I'm aiming to get the second part out in the next day or two. Ofc it's ancient Greece, so bits of it are dark, the reader is Achilles's spoil of war, and he's not the nicest guy to begin with.
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS
WC: 7.1k
The camp smells of smoke and blood. The cries of the captured have begun to thin, fading into low sobs or silence, but the crackle of fire and the metallic tang in the air cling stubbornly to your skin. You’re shoved forward with a rough hand between your shoulder blades, stumbling to keep from falling into the dust.
A cluster of Greek soldiers watches, their eyes glittering with something meaner than victory.
Their laughter rises and falls around you, sharp as spearpoints, and you know without needing to be told what they see when they look at you. Not a person, not the daughter of a noble house, but plunder. Something taken.
Something owed.
“You’ll fetch a good price,” one of them mutters, voice thick with drink and triumph. “Pretty little spoil.”
You set your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your fear. You keep your chin high, though your wrists ache from the rope biting into them.
Another soldier steps closer, circling you like he’s weighing the cut of a horse. He grins, crooked teeth catching the firelight. “Why sell her when we could enjoy her ourselves?” His tone is oily, greedy, and the sounds of agreement rumble low.
Your stomach turns, but before the suggestion can grow into action, another voice cuts in.
“That one.”
The speaker isn’t the loudest among them, but he doesn’t need to be. There seems to be a weight in his voice that makes the others still. He’s taller than most, broad-shouldered, his armour dented and streaked with dust from the day’s fight.
“Eudorus,” someone says, half-question, half-warning.
He ignores them, steps into the firelight, and tilts his head as though deciding what to make of you. “She’s not for you lot,” he says, not unkindly, but not gently either. It’s the tone of command, the kind used to settle arguments before they begin.
“She’s a noble’s daughter, isn’t she?” His eyes flick to the embroidered edge of your torn sleeve, the way you stand despite the bruises blooming on your arms. He doesn’t wait for your answer.
“She’s worth more than a few drunken fumbles.”
The others grumble, disappointed, but none of them challenge him. They all know Eudorus, second only to their commander.
You glare at him anyway, suspicion burning hotter than your fear. You’re not naive enough to believe he’s intervening for your sake.
He looks you up and down, once, twice, a small smirk finding his lips, “You’ve got fire. You’ll need it.”
“Why?” The question slips out before you can bite it back.
“Because you’re going to him.”
The words land like a stone in your gut. You’ve heard the name on every soldier’s lips, spoken with awe, fear, or envy. The half-god. The butcher of men.
The Greeks’ greatest weapon.
The laughter of the soldiers turns uneasy now, their glances sharp. They all understand what Eudorus means, and a few even look at you with something almost pitying. Almost.
You draw yourself up, refusing to shrink. “And if I don’t want to?”
Eudorus actually huffs a laugh, as though the world’s too old for such questions. “It doesn’t matter what you want. You’re spoil. His spoil, now.” He pauses, studying your face. “Better his than theirs.” His nod tips toward the other men, who shift under his gaze, chastised.
The implication is clear.
Eudorus steps closer, lowering his voice so only you hear. “He’s not gentle. He’s not kind. But he doesn’t take what he doesn’t want. Remember that.”
And then, without another word, he jerks his chin to the men holding your rope. “Untie her. She walks.”
The rope falls away from your wrists, leaving raw marks that throb as the blood returns. You rub them, biting back the sting, as Eudorus turns and gestures for you to follow.
The walk to his tent feels like walking to the edge of the world.
Everywhere you look there are shadows and movement, but no safe place to hide. The men you pass look at you with open curiosity, some with hunger, most with the grim satisfaction of victors. And then they look away, quickly, when they notice who walks in front of you.
When you reach the tent, it looms larger than most, dark hide, tall enough to stand in, the faint glow of a lamp spilling out from the entrance. The air is quieter here, as though even sound itself chooses its steps carefully.
Eudorus stops, finally turning back to you. For the first time since he pulled you from the others, his expression softens a fraction. “Don’t fight him,” he says, low. “You’ll only make it worse.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just pushes the flap aside and gestures for you to go in.
You hesitate. Every part of you screams that stepping through that threshold will seal something you can’t undo. But there’s no choice. There never was.
The tent smells of leather and steel, of oil and sweat and smoke. It’s spare, almost stark, the possessions of a man who doesn’t waste time on frills; a low table, a rack of weapons, a trunk pushed into one corner. But your eyes go straight to the bed, the wide frame of wood, covered in furs and rough linens.
And then you see him.
Achilles
He’s sitting with one knee drawn up, stripping the last of his armour, broad shoulders gleaming with the sheen of recent battle. The lamplight paints him in gold and shadow, carving out every line of muscle, every scar. His hair falls loose, tangled from the fight, his mouth set in something too hard to be called a smile.
You’ve heard his name whispered in dread, but none of it prepared you for the reality of him. The sheer size, the effortless presence.
His eyes lift to you, cool and assessing, and in that glance you understand why men follow him and why cities burn because of him.
Eudorus clears his throat, as if to break whatever silent weight presses the air.
“For you,” he says simply.
Achilles’ gaze lingers on you for a long moment. Then he looks back at Eudorus. “Leave us.”
There’s no discussion, no curiosity, no explanation. Just an order.
Eudorus hesitates, only slightly, then moves. He takes a length of cord from the trunk and gestures you toward a patch of bare ground near the bed. His grip is firm as he guides you down, tying your wrists together in front of you. Not rough, but definitely not gentle either. Just efficient.
You meet his eyes once, searching for something, but he doesn’t linger. He knots the cord, gives Achilles a sharp nod, and leaves without another word.
The silence left in his wake is heavy.
You’re alone with him now.
Achilles rises, moving with the unhurried grace of a predator that knows nothing can touch it. He crosses the short distance, his shadow swallowing you, and crouches low enough that you can see the flecks of bronze and green in his eyes.
“You know who I am,” he says. Not a question.
You swallow. “Achilles.”
His mouth curves. “Good.”
He takes the rope binding your wrists and, to your surprise, slices it clean with a knife. The fibres fall away, your hands suddenly free, though the skin beneath is raw and red.
Relief, however, is short-lived.
He then stands and walks to the bed. With one hand, he drags the frame slightly, just enough that you hear the weight of it grind against the earth.
“Get on the bed.”
Your chest goes cold. Every story you’ve heard, every warning, rushes back at once. Your feet stay planted, rooted in the dust. “No.”
His head tilts, just slightly. Like he’s cataloguing a detail about you, the same way one might note the shape of a weapon.
“No?”
You force yourself to meet his eyes, though your whole body trembles. “I won’t.”
Achilles steps closer. You scramble backwards, still on the floor, untill you can’t anymore. Your back hits the edge of the tent.
He doesn’t grab your arms, doesn’t shove you. Instead, he crouches again, his hand closing around your ankle. In one smooth motion, he drags you towards him.
“You’re mine,” he says, calm as a priest reciting a prayer. “You don’t decide.”
His grip tightens just enough to make the point, and then he lashes the cord around your ankle, binding it to one of the heavy bedposts.
Achilles straightens, looming over you, his shadow long in the lamplight. “I could do anything I wanted. Anything. That’s my right. You understand that?”
Your throat is too dry to answer, but you nod once, stiff.
His gaze doesn’t soften, but it sharpens, as though he’s weighing something invisible. “And I will. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. But I will.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
“But not tonight.” He says it like fact, like inevitability. His hand leaves your ankle, and he climbs onto the bed with the same ease he carries everywhere, lying back into the furs as if you’re nothing more than another possession set aside for later.
Your breath comes fast, uneven.
“Lie down,” he says without looking at you.
You freeze.
His eyes flick to you, sharp and unblinking. “Get in the bed.”
You don’t move at first. Terror roots you, shame burns your skin. But then you see the set of his jaw, the certainty in him that you can’t break. Slowly, stiffly, you climb onto the bed, keeping as much distance as the rope allows.
The furs are warm beneath you, smelling faintly of smoke and salt. Achilles stretches out, unbothered, as though this is nothing unusual.
He closes his eyes. “Sleep.”
You lie rigid, every muscle taut, staring at the ceiling of the tent. You don’t sleep. Not really.
The light wakes you first. Pale gold seeps through the seams of the tent, catching on the motes of dust in the air. The camp is already alive outside, voices calling, a clang of steel.
And then you remember where you are.
The tug at your ankle. The fur beneath you. The heat at your side.
You turn your head before you can stop yourself.
Achilles is already awake. He sits on the edge of the bed, bare-backed, shoulders broad enough to block half the lamplight. His hair is damp as though he’s already been out at sea or poured water over himself. When he turns, his eyes catch yours, clear and sharp, as though he hasn’t slept at all.
Without a word, he holds out a cup.
You hesitate. He doesn’t explain, doesn’t coax. Just waits, arm extended, until the weight of silence forces you to take it. The water is cool against your cracked lips, and only when the last drop is gone do you realize how thirsty you were.
When you lower the cup, there’s something else on the bed beside you, folded linen, smooth and startlingly clean. A dress, finer than anything you’ve seen on the other captives. Pale blue, embroidered along the edges, the sort of garment a noblewoman might wear to a feast.
You glance from it back to him.
Achilles shrugs, as if your suspicion bores him. “I wanted it.”
Your stomach knots. “Why?”
“Because you’re mine.” He says it with the same tone he used last night, simple and irrefutable. “And if I want my spoil in a pretty dress, she'll wear a pretty dress.”
There’s no shame in his voice, no cruelty. Just fact. He doesn’t care whether you rage or cry. He expects neither.
You clutch the fabric tighter, fingers digging into the embroidery. “So… are you going to leave?”
It’s a foolish question, you know it as soon as you say it, but the thought of changing with him standing there makes bile rise in your throat.
His head tilts, eyes narrowing like he’s amused you even bothered to ask. “No.”
Your heart kicks painfully. “Then I won’t change.”
Achilles leans forward, forearms braced on his knees. The lines of his mouth don’t move, but his eyes sharpen in a way that makes you want to shrink into the furs. “You think I care?” he asks softly, almost like it’s a real question. “I’ll see it all anyway. Today. Tomorrow. Whenever I decide. You can fight, or you can stop wasting time.”
The words chill you more than a threat ever could.
You clutch the dress so hard the fabric strains. Your body is trembling again, but you make yourself hold his gaze. “Not now.”
A long silence.
Then, slowly, Achilles straightens. He picks up a knife from the low table and sits back on the edge of the bed, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his skin. He doesn’t look at you. His broad back is turned, his focus entirely on the blade in his hand as he pulls the whetstone along the edge, steady and patient.
The sound fills the space between you, scrape, pause, scrape, as though he’s giving you time, even if he’d never admit it.
Your chest rises and falls too quickly, lungs struggling with each breath.
It takes you longer than it should to realise, he’s still there, but he’s turned away. Not leaving, but not looking either.
You glance down at the dress again, its blue stark against the dark furs. The whetstone hisses again, and his voice cuts through the scrape of steel, calm and final.
“Get changed.”
You wait until the scrape of stone against steel stops. The silence is louder than the noise, pressing at your ears, and you realize he’s waiting.
Your fingers tremble as you peel the torn dress from your shoulders, slipping it down your body in jerky movements, desperate not to look at him. The air is cool against your bare skin, gooseflesh prickling along your arms, and you snatch the new linen before the shame can eat you alive.
You half expect him to turn, to watch, to make it worse. But when you glance he’s still angled away, hunched over the knife, broad back steady as stone.
You let out a shaky breath and pull the dress over your head. It’s too big in some places, too loose, the ties at the waist hanging slack. You tug at them, fumbling, but your fingers don’t seem to work right.
“You’ll trip like that.”
His voice cuts clean through the air, and your head jerks up. He’s turned now, knife laid aside, gaze fixed on you with that same unwavering weight. Before you can react, he’s rising, crossing the space between you in three strides.
You stiffen as he stops close, too close. His hand comes up, fingers brushing against your waist as he takes the cords from your useless grip. He tugs them tight with one swift pull, knotting them secure. The fabric cinches around you, sharper now, fitting you to his measure instead of your own.
It’s not soft. His knuckles graze your ribs, the pull of the cord sharp against your skin. Deliberate. Controlled.
Still, your breath hitches.
His voice is low when he speaks, closer now, but still steady, unhurried. “You know it will happen.”
The words send ice down your spine, you immediately know what he's talking about. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I won’t be cruel for the sake of it,” Achilles continues, eyes on the knot he’s tying rather than your face. “I won’t try to break you. But it will hurt.” A pause, then, “It always does.”
You flinch, but his tone doesn’t change. He doesn’t press, doesn’t linger. Just ties the knot firm and steps back, giving you space again.
And then, like he’s offering you nothing more than another fact of life, he adds, “If I don’t take you, Agamemnon will. He’ll give you to his men when he’s finished. And that will be cruel.”
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. You know it’s true, you’ve heard the stories, seen the aftermath. The thought of those hands, those teeth, the laughter…
You grip the fabric of the dress so hard your knuckles ache. “So what?” Your voice cracks, but you force the words out anyway. “I should thank you?”
Achilles’ gaze finally meets yours. Not mocking, just… fixed. “No. You should survive.”
Something hot and ugly twists in your chest. Relief, sharp and shameful, cutting against the hatred you want to feel.
You hate yourself for the way the dress feels sturdier tied around your waist, for the way your heart doesn’t pound quite as fast now that the threat is clear, laid out plain instead of circling in your head. You hate yourself most of all for the flicker of something that isn’t terror when his eyes hold yours.
You swallow hard and look away, forcing your shoulders back. “I don’t want your protection.”
A muscle in his jaw shifts, like he finds that statement as obvious as the rising sun. “Doesn’t matter what you want.”
The words are flat, final.
They leave you angry. Angry at him, angry at the world, angry at yourself for noticing that his hands, the same ones that could snap you in half, had only tightened a knot.
The days bleed together.
You stop flinching when he passes close. At first, it’s just exhaustion; your body can’t stay strung tight forever. But then you notice the difference in yourself, you notice that your shoulders don’t tense when he brushes past to reach for his armour. You notice the way your heartbeat doesn’t leap when the flap of the tent rustles with his arrival.
You don’t know when it started. You only know that the fear that once left you gasping has settled into something else.
Protection, you realise one morning, watching him from the corner of your eye as he buckles his greaves. He doesn’t speak to you unless he wants something. He doesn’t touch you unless necessary. But his presence is a wall, high and solid, and when he’s inside the tent, no one else dares look at you.
You hate yourself for it, but you want that wall.
So when he leaves at dusk, you feel the absence as much as the relief.
The camp is louder in the evening. Laughter and shouts, the clang of cups, the groan of dice. You sit on the edge of the bed, your ankle still bound to its frame, fingers digging into the linen of your dress. You tell yourself he’ll be back soon.
You also tell yourself you don’t care.
The flap snaps open.
It isn’t him.
Two men stumble inside, half-drunk, reeking of wine. Their eyes go straight to you, and you know instantly what they see; a woman tied to the bed in Achilles’ tent.
One grins. “So he has taken her.”
The other snorts, gaze raking over you like filth. “Wouldn’t mind a taste when he’s finished. Bet he wouldn’t even notice.”
Your blood turns to ice. You shrink back instinctively, pulling the rope taut until it bites into your ankle.
The first one takes a step closer. “What’s the harm? He’ll tire of her soon enough.”
But before you can scream, the air in the tent shifts.
The flap slams open again, hard enough to crack the pole. Achilles fills the space in an instant, tall, bare-armed, chest still glistening with sweat from training. His eyes cut across the room, catching everything at once.
The men freeze.
You have never wanted someone here more than you want him now. The relief hits you like a blow, dizzying, desperate. For the first time, you want Achilles.
Not as a man. Not as anything soft. But as the wall.
“What,” Achilles says, voice flat and cold, “are you doing in my tent?”
The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. His presence alone is thunder.
The men stammer, bow, retreat a step, but it isn’t fast enough. Achilles moves before the second can finish his excuse. He grabs him by the throat and shoves him back against the tent pole. The wood groans.
“She’s mine.” The words are low, guttural, vibrating in his chest as much as his voice. “You don’t touch what’s mine.”
The man chokes, scrabbling at Achilles’ wrist. The other tries to speak, but Achilles doesn’t look at him. He squeezes once, hard, until the man’s face goes red, and only then releases him.
Both men stumble out like beaten dogs, the tent flap slapping shut behind them.
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Your breath comes fast, shallow. You realise your hands are shaking, clutching the sheets like a lifeline. You should feel disgust, terror, fury. You do feel it. But stronger than all of it is relief, the overwhelming certainty that if Achilles is here, no one else can touch you.
He turns to you then, and for once, his gaze isn’t distant. It lands heavy, direct, pinning you in place. “They won’t try again.”
You swallow, hard. Your throat is dry. “Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it. “Why protect me?”
He studies you, as if weighing whether you deserve the truth.
“Because you’re mine. And no one takes from me.”
It should sound like a threat. Maybe it is. But your chest loosens anyway, like the cords around your ribs have been cut.
Achilles takes a step closer. You don’t recoil this time. “You think I don’t see it,” he says, voice quieter now. “The fear.”
Heat floods your face. You drop your gaze, unable to hold his.
He doesn’t stop. “I won’t take you like that. Not while you’re afraid.”
Your head snaps up, eyes wide. The words hang between you, heavier than the silence.
It isn’t a kindness. His tone doesn’t change, doesn’t soften. It’s a promise spoken the same way he’d speak of battle, inevitable, factual.
Still, it’s the first breath of mercy you’ve heard since the night you were dragged into this tent.
You hate that something inside you eases. You hate that your chest aches less, that your body doesn’t curl away when he moves past you to sit on the edge of the bed.
Your body remembers the fear in those men’s eyes. Your body remembers the way his hand around another’s throat had been your shield. And your body, traitorous and weak, remembers the promise.
That night, you lie beside him in the dark, ankle still tied, staring at the canvas ceiling. And for the first time, you don’t pray for escape.
You pray he doesn’t leave.
The next morning, a morning of battle, the camp feels different.
There's a low undercurrent beneath the clatter of shields and the stamping of boots. Shouts carry sharper. Laughter is forced, too loud, like men trying to shout down their own fear.
Achilles doesn’t laugh. He never does.
You watch him from the bed as he straps on his armour, each piece fitting to his body. Bronze greaves. Bracers. The chestplate that gleams in the sun like liquid fire. He moves like the armour is part of him, like he was born with it instead of forged into it.
You tell yourself you’re only watching because there’s nothing else to look at. Not because the sight is… distracting.
His hair falls loose over his shoulders until he ties it back, the golden strands catching the morning light. The muscles of his back flex and shift as he pulls the leather tight. He is beautiful, you think with sudden bitterness.
And you hate him more for it.
Still, when he reaches for his sword, you hear yourself speak before you can stop.
“You think you’re untouchable.”
The words hang in the air. Sharp. Reckless.
Achilles glances at you over his shoulder. One brow lifts, the barest ghost of amusement flickering at the edge of his mouth. “And you think you know me.”
Your cheeks flush, but you lift your chin. “I think you’re arrogant.”
He slides the blade into its sheath, slow and deliberate. “Arrogant,” he repeats, tasting the word. Then, turning fully to face you, “Or right?”
Heat crawls up your throat. You clench your fists in the sheets, hating the way his gaze burns through you. “If you were right, you wouldn’t need all that armour.”
For the first time, a real smile touches his mouth.
“So you do watch.”
You want the ground to swallow you whole. “I-”
“Don’t lie.” He steps closer, slow as a predator circling. The tent feels smaller with each footfall. “You watch everything I do.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Because I have no choice.”
“Because you’re curious.” He stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell the leather and steel, the salt of sweat already rising on his skin. “And because you don’t hate me anymore.”
You want to deny it. Gods, you want to deny it. But your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, and you hate that he can see the truth on your face.
His hand drops suddenly to your ankle. You jolt, but before you can pull back, the rope loosens. He’s untying it. It falls loose around your skin, leaving a raw ring where it’s rubbed you for days. You stare at him, stunned.
“Why-”
“You won’t run.” His tone makes it clear that it's not a question. It's a fact. "But if I don't come back, then you can."
You swallow hard, dragging your gaze from the discarded rope to his face.
“So what now? You go off to war and I sit here, waiting?”
“You’ll sit here,” he confirms, matter-of-fact, as if that’s all there is to say.
Something ugly twists in your chest. Anger, fear, something else you don’t want to name. “And if you don’t come back?”
The silence between you sharpens. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften. Just stares down at you with those unyielding eyes. “Then I won’t come back.”
You almost laugh. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
He crouches suddenly, bringing himself level with you. The movement is fluid, predatory. His armour creaks with the shift, his knees spread wide as he rests his forearm on one thigh, the other hand braced on the bed beside you.
The nearness steals your breath. His face is inches from yours, his eyes burning with the same calm fire you’ve seen on the battlefield.
“That’s all there is to say.”
Your pulse hammers. You should shove him away. You should spit in his face. But your body won’t move.
And then, before you can think, before you can breathe, he leans in.
The brush of his lips against your cheek is quick, almost chaste, but it lands like a brand.
A farewell.
You freeze, every muscle taut, heart thrashing like a trapped bird. When he pulls back, you can still feel the ghost of his mouth on your skin.
He straightens in one smooth motion, gathering his shield, his spear. Without another glance, he turns toward the tent flap.
Your voice breaks free at the last second. “Achilles-”
He pauses, half-turned, golden hair spilling over the gleam of his armour.
The words die on your tongue. You don’t know what you were going to say. Don’t come back hurt? Don’t leave me here? Please?
In the end, you say nothing.
He holds your gaze for one heartbeat longer, then disappears into the sunlight.
The night stretches long.
You don’t realise how restless you’ve become until you notice the grooves your pacing has worn into the mat by the bed. The air in the tent feels too close, pressing against your skin like a damp cloth.
Outside, the noise of the camp rises and falls, bursts of laughter, the clink of cups, the occasional groan of the wounded carried back from the field.
Every sound makes your chest clench tighter.
When the flap finally shifts, it nearly knocks the breath out of you. Achilles strides in first, heavy steps shaking the ground beneath him. The sight of him steals whatever words you might have had.
He’s whole. Upright. But his movements aren’t smooth like this morning. He’s stiff, deliberate, as though each step takes effort. His armour gleams dully with streaks of dirt and blood, some of it his, some of it not.
Eudorus follows, close on his heels, the one who handed you over that first night. His face is tight with worry, his voice low but urgent as he hounds Achilles across the tent.
“You need a healer,” Eudorus insists. “Now. That cut-”
“I said no.” Achilles’ voice is clipped, cold as a blade.
“You’re bleeding through your own bandage. You’ll rot before morning if it isn’t cleaned properly.”
“I don’t need a boy with herbs to tell me how to stand.”
He shrugs out of his shield and lets it clatter against the wall, then the sword belt, the bracers, the greaves. Each piece drops heavier than the last, the noise sharp enough to make you flinch.
Eudorus doesn’t back down. “You’ll drop before you admit you’re hurt. Is that your plan? Fall to rot before the Trojans cut you down?”
Achilles whirls, eyes flashing, and for the first time you hear real heat in his voice. “Enough.”
The tent falls silent. Even Eudorus stills, jaw working.
You stay frozen on the bed, hands tight in your lap. For a heartbeat, you almost want Eudorus to keep pressing. To make him yield, force him to let someone else in. But the older man only shakes his head once, sharp and bitter, then steps back.
“You’re a fool,” he mutters, and leaves the tent without another word.
The flap drops. You are alone with Achilles.
The silence is thick. He doesn’t look at you as he strips away the rest of his armour, piece by piece. When the chestplate comes off, you see it, a slash running deep across his ribs, poorly wrapped with a strip of linen already soaked dark.
You inhale sharply without meaning to. The sound makes his eyes flick toward you, quick and cutting, before he drops them back.
“It’s nothing.” His tone is harsh, daring you to argue.
But it isn’t nothing. You can see the way he favors his side, the way his fingers tighten around the buckle as he wrests it loose.
Your throat feels dry. “That’s a lie.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Better a lie than weakness.”
He finds another strip of linen and binds it around his ribs, movements brisk, half-done. The fabric slips against his skin, already staining.
You watch as he pulls the knot tight, as his chest heaves with one breath, then another. You watch as the anger sharpens him, masks whatever pain is underneath.
This morning, you’d seen a man who smiled, who kissed your cheek like he meant it. Now, you see only the warrior, carved sharp enough to cut himself on his own edges.
You curl your fingers in your dress, nails biting into your palms. For a moment, you almost rise. Almost step forward. Almost offer your hands instead of just your eyes.
But he isn’t weak yet. He isn’t asking. And you know that he wouldn’t let you. Not like this.
So you stay where you are, watching the line of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the blood seeping slowly through the cloth.
And when he finally drops onto the stool, elbows on his knees, head bowed, you bite your tongue against the urge to speak.
You wake with a start.
At first you don’t know why. The camp is quiet now, the drunken shouts have died down to snores. The only sound inside the tent is the rasp of his breathing.
Too loud. Too ragged.
Then you feel it, heat. Rolling off him in waves, seeping into the sheets beneath you, pressing against your skin until you’re suffocating.
Your eyes snap open. The dim glow of the dying fire throws enough light to see him beside you, sprawled half on his side, half on his back. His face is pale, sheened with sweat, his chest rising and falling too fast.
Your heart lurches.
Slowly, carefully, you push yourself upright. The smell hits you first — copper and salt, sharp and heavy in the air. Then you see the bandage, dark and wet, clinging uselessly to the wound on his ribs. The blood has bled clean through, seeping into the sheets, staining.
Panic surges in your throat. You reach out without thinking, then stop, hovering over him.
You shouldn’t. You don’t owe him this. He is the reason you’re here at all, tied, stripped of everything you were. He is the man who tied you to his bed, who told you with a straight face that he would take you, sooner or later.
You should let him burn.
Your fingers tremble in the air, so close to his skin you can feel the fever rolling off him. His face shifts, a faint grimace, a low sound catching in his throat.
You curse under your breath.
Moving quickly now, before you can change your mind, you kneel beside him. The knot of the bandage is crusted thick with dried blood; when you try to loosen it, he stirs, a soft growl rumbling in his chest.
“Stay still,” you whisper, though you know he can’t really hear you.
His eyes crack open anyway, unfocused and fever-bright. For a heartbeat they catch yours, and you freeze, sure he’ll shove you away even half-dead. But then his lids flutter, heavy, and his head turns away. Too weak to stop you.
You take your chance.
The linen peels back sticky and red, the wound beneath raw and angry. Infection, you think grimly. If it isn’t cleaned, he’ll rot from the inside out.
Your stomach twists, but you force yourself steady. You find a bowl, a rag, a flask of water, not enough, never enough, but better than nothing. The cloth darkens as you soak it, your hands shaking.
When you press it to his skin, he jerks, a hiss escaping between clenched teeth.
“I know,” you murmur, more to yourself than him. “I know. Just- stay still.”
You clean as best you can, wiping away the blood, the dirt, the grime. The wound oozes, and each time you drag the cloth across it, you feel him flinch, hear the low growl in his chest. But he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t stop you.
Your breath quickens with the effort, with the weight of what you’re doing. Each pass of the cloth is another line crossed, another thread tangled in a web you can’t untie.
You should hate him. Gods, you do hate him. But your hands don’t stop.
When the water runs pink, you toss it aside and grab fresh linen. You press it hard against the wound, tying it snug around his ribs. Your fingers brush his skin as you knot it, hot and damp with fever.
For the first time, you feel the fragility beneath the armor. Flesh and blood, not bronze and legend.
When you’re finished, you sit back on your heels, chest heaving. Your hands are stained red, your dress smeared. He’s still burning, still breathing too fast, but the bleeding has slowed.
You stare down at him, torn open inside.
You should have let him rot.
But you didn’t.
And as his head lolls toward you, lips parted, the faintest sigh escaping, you realise the truth that terrifies you most.
You didn’t want to.
You must've fallen asleep, because the light wakes you.
Not the camp noise, though it hums faintly beyond the canvas, but the brightness spilling through the tent. Pale and soft, enough to sting your eyes when you blink them open.
You turn your head, breath catching.
He’s awake.
Achilles sits half upright, teeth bared against the pain as he tries to push himself from the bed. His hand grips the frame, the muscles in his arm flexing, but his body betrays him; he sways, breath shuddering out through his nose.
Before you think better of it, you sit up quickly. “Stop. You’ll rip it open again.”
He glances at you. His eyes are clearer than they were last night, sharp even through the haze of fever, and the weight of his gaze pins you in place.
But he listens. His grip slackens. Slowly, he lowers himself back, chest heaving with the effort.
You watch him for a long moment, pulse hammering in your throat. He knows. You can see it in the flicker of his eyes, the way they dart briefly to the clean bandage wrapped around his ribs. He knows you touched him.
He knows you helped.
The air thickens between you. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you looks away.
And in that silence, you both already understand, you can’t come back from this.
You clear your throat first, breaking the spell. “I need to change it.”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t stop you when you fetch fresh water, when you press the cloth against his skin. He flinches once, sharp, a faint hiss escaping through his teeth, but he stays still, watching you with that relentless focus.
It makes your hands unsteady. Not the wound, not the blood, him.
You knot the linen tight around his ribs, and when you’re finished you move to stand, desperate for space, for air. But as you rise, his hand shoots out.
Fingers close around your wrist. Not hard, not cruel, but firm.
You freeze.
His palm is hot against your skin, calloused and sure. You look down at him, startled, and find his eyes already on you.
No command. No threat. Just that same unflinching gaze, as though he’s holding you still with more than just his hand.
Your breath catches.
The moment stretches, tight as a drawn bowstring.
Then, slowly, he releases you.
Like I said this is basically the first half of the fic. I guess I was in a mood for angst?? But dw it gets hot later too <3
