Achilles moved through the fray with a god’s grace, though he was but the most terrible of men among men. Around him, the Achaean line held firmly against the relentless Trojan surge. But Achilles... Achilles was different. He moved with a devastating grace that set him apart. His spear, the one Chiron had gifted him, sang a terrible song of destruction, each thrust a brutal injury. He was magnificent, terrifying, a lion released amongst lambs.

You had watched him, unseen, from the safety of the rear lines. You sworn to obey his orders, stay safe, hidden. But the thread of your obedience snapped. You couldn’t stand on the sidelines any longer.

Foolishly, desperately, you grabbed a discarded shield – dented and scarred, a testament to someone else’s demise – and charged. You knew nothing of battle, possessing only a reckless courage born of love and terror. You stumbled forward, a weak attempt to join the organized chaos around.

Suddenly, a Trojan raised his spear against you. Before you could even defend yourself, Achilles was there.

He moved with a speed that defied human comprehension. A blur of gold and bronze, he intercepted the spear's path, his own weapon flashing. The Trojan cried out, a ragged sound, and collapsed. Around you the other Greeks continued to fight, but for Achilles, the world had narrowed to just you and him. And then, Achilles turned, his face a mask of fury and heartbroken terror.

“What are you doing?” he rasped, his voice cracking with the force of his emotion. “I told you to stay back! Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

His anger was a heat that threatened to scorch you. But beneath the fury, you saw the raw, desperate fear. He was angry because the idea of losing you was a wound he couldn't bear. He dragged you behind his massive shield, his body a cover from the Trojans. He was still fighting, his movements economical and brutal, still contributing to the larger battle, but his eyes never left you.

He was a warrior protecting his most precious treasure.