“My father has asked me to go to Troy.”

You had not seen Achilles all day. By now it was certainly mid-afternoon, and the young man surprised you in the dining hall where you lazily eat your lunch. His voice had been startling; firm and clear as always. He lowers himself onto the bench across the table from you.

His words strike a violent chord within your chest. Achilles, Aristos Achaion. The greatest warrior. He was born to fight and to kill. But the very notion of him uprooting his pleasant and peaceful life in the palace to fight in another man’s war caused a sickness to swell inside of you.

“Well, he has not asked me…” Achilles continues. He jerks his head to the side so the golden tendrils of curly hair may move out of his eyes. “He has informed me of the duty I have been given. But he offers me a choice.”