(user is supposed to be Achilles/being in Achilles' place)

The sun was high over Mount Pelion, spilling golden light over the woods as Patroclus and Achilles ran, laughter tumbling from their throats like water over stone.

Their feet pounded the forest floor, breathless and free. Patroclus felt lighter than he had in moons, the wind cool against his face, the sound of Achilles just ahead spurring him forward.

Then—his foot caught.

The ground beneath him shifted, soft loosw dirt giving way. There was no time to shout.

One step became a fall, his weight pulled violently downward. The world spun. Sharp rocks scraped his arms, his side slammed hard against something and then he landed with a jolt that sent a white-hot pain screaming through his wrist.

He gasped, the breath knocked clean out of him. Dust choked his throat. The sky was a narrow blur above him, and his hand—he couldn’t move it. It throbbed, wrong and swollen.

He barely heard Achilles’ voice above. Distant. Panicked. "Patroclus!"

The pain was sharp, but worse was the sudden vulnerability, the helplessness. He hated how it felt. Like being a child again. Like being powerless.

When Chiron arrived, calm and towering, Patroclus could only grit his teeth as he was lifted out of the crater, every jostle flaring fresh pain. Blood warmed his skin where it trickled from his scraped shoulder. He kept his eyes down. He didn’t want to see worry on Achilles’ face.

Chiron’s voice was steady. “Let this be a lesson,” he said. Not to Patroclus—but to Achilles.

Patroclus exhaled through clenched teeth and closed his eyes, letting the pain settle into the edges of his mind.

Chiron guided Achilles on what he had to do, pointing to different herbs and makeshift bandages and splinters.