Twenty-Seven

The next morning, I was summoned to the Myrmidon training grounds. After attacking Achilles—if you could call that an attack—I retreated to my room and refused to see anyone. The tiny room had become a haven of solitude the past few days.

"None of it is your fault, either, Alexis."

I chewed a hole in my bottom lip as Achilles' words tumbled around my head. He was wrong. It was all my fault. If I hadn't been here, Zoisme would still be alive, probably with her mother and the other Amazons. I let my defences down just enough that Paris slipped through. Let my feelings for him grow. All that did was hurt me and everyone around me. War had come anyway, everyone's fates still exactly as they were supposed to be. Except for mine.

We were scheduled to leave to join the rest of the Grecian army in a few days time, once all we gathered enough supplies and the remainder of the Phthian army arrived. Then the great army would sail for Troy. And I would be with them.

The training grounds were empty. The Myrmidons were given time to spend with loved ones and prepare for travel. The midday sun sat high above, its rays warming the sand, which slipped through the cracks of my sandals, scratching the bottoms of my feet. With the towering walls of the palace sweeping around me, there was little wind, leaving the humid heat to fester.

I was wrong. The grounds were not empty. Achilles stood near the wash basin, wiping his hands on a tattered cloth. As I approached, he set the cloth on the lip of the basin and turned to face me, a spark in his blue eyes. I couldn't tell whether that spark was good or bad, but I was about to find out.

"You look like you haven't bathed in days," Achilles remarked, his snipe belied by the glimmer of amusement.

I didn't jump to the bait, forcing my expression into a mask of chilling indifference. The heat indeed did seem to diminish, freezing the glimmer in Achilles' eyes.

"Yeah, well grief can be a bitch," I bit back, "what am I doing here?"

The clench in his strong jaw was the only indication that I struck a nerve. He sauntered around the basin, coming close enough for me to see the etches of his mouth, the smudged beginnings of a beard across his jaw and under his chin.

"Training," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I decided to train you."

That was not at all what I expected. I tilted my head, forcing that coolness to stay in place. Grief did wonders for my ability to not care. "You want to train me? Why the change of heart?"

"You said Bacchus was going to train you, but he's missing." Achilles pursed his lips, the only indication that he was worried about the boy. The boy I'd grown to care about as well. I tried to recall the last time I saw him, but everything after we returned to the Amazon camp was a blur. "Perhaps I decided that I should show you a thing or two in the meantime."

I tilted my head and nudged my toes in the sand. "I don't know, I'm getting the impression you've been replaced by a doppelganger. A much nicer one at that."

"Alexis." My name came out tired, exasperated. As if training me was not actually Achilles' idea but, probably, Patroclus'. "You wanted this. Now grab a sword."

"Do we even have time for this?" I asked, even as I scrambled for a sword. A practice sword, more like it. Someone had carved it from wood, just like the children's swords I'd seen at a renaissance fair last year—

I blinked, my hand curling around the wooden handle. A renaissance fair? What was that? Ribbons, tents, horseback riding, elaborate costumes flashed in my mind but they were hazy. Unfamiliar. Like they weren't really my memories at all—

"Alexis? They're all the same. Just pick one and hurry up."

I rolled my eyes at the impatience in Achilles' tone. I lifted the practice sword and spun around to face him.

"I know you train new soldiers with real swords. Where's mine?" I asked, moving to the centre of the sandy arena.

"Once I know you're not going to chop my head or limbs off then you have permission to train with a real sword. For now, you get a child's sword. It fits your delicate little hand better anyway."

I scowled, that bitter anger that had been simmering under my skin started to spark. I lifted the wooden sword, the pointed end of the blade aimed for him. "Shut up and teach me."

The wood absorbed the sweat from my palms, and, while I was mad at the Greek hero, I appreciated the lightness of the sword. Any heavier and I might have lost my grip. A raven cawed from the rafters above, its dark form a tiny void against the burning, blue sky. Achilles brandished his own sword—also wooden and he looked absolutely ridiculous—and stepped towards me. And dropped his sword in the sand.

"Your stance is all wrong," he sighed. He drew closer. "Spread your legs apart so they line with your shoulders. Yes, like that. Now, hold your sword like this—" he placed my right hand against the hilt of my sword and my left above the right. "Bend your knees. When you swing you'll swing from there, not your back. You want to be grounded the entire time. The momentum of a real sword will knock you off balance if you're not careful."

We went through the beginning stances a few more times until Achilles was pleased enough to move onto practising swinging the blade. Where to swing, how to swing, how to use your stance, blah, blah, blah. It was boring, not nearly as exciting as I thought it would be. I had a sneaking suspicion that Achilles was trying to bore me out of training. That I would see it wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Joke's on him. I wasn't going to give up that easily.

When we finally took a break, I scooped some cold water from the basin with the ladle and dumped it over my head. The shock of the cold made me gasp. I did it again, letting the delicious chill cling to my pink and sweaty skin. With the unrelenting sun high above us, I had no doubts I was going to have another sunburn.

Achilles approached the other side of the basin and dipped his cloth into the water. He made no remark at my dripping hair and face as he wiped his sodden cloth across his face and neck. I set the ladle back in the basin and leaned against the rough, cool palace wall and stared out at the training arena. It was the only spot with a little shade, much to my relief.

"Are you worried about this war?" I asked. No doubt that was a foolish thing to ask, so I was actually surprised to see the thoughtfulness in Achilles' expression as he placed the cloth on top of his head.

"War is in my blood," he said, "I was born to fight. My men stand ready to fight. To die in battle is to die with honour."

I nodded, tapping my fingers on the lip of the basin. "And Patroclus? He can fight and he's ready to fight at your side."

Achilles' expression turned stormy. "Patroclus is stubborn. I can't keep him off the battlefield...while I don't wish him to see battle, he, like every one of my men, deserves to die with honour and dignity."

All I could give was another nod. We stood in silence as our pulses evened and our breath steadied. The first traces of clouds drifted overhead, stringy wisps of white like cotton candy. I hoped that meant another storm was coming, though Achilles had remarked that winter was on the horizon. That meant more rain and chillier days.

Not that I was complaining. I was done with the ruthless summer heat...but it sent a race of goosebumps down my spine. I had been in Thessaly long enough to see the seasons change. No wonder Paris had moved on.

Thinking of Paris threatened to open the vault I was trying to keep locked in my chest. Thinking of him with Helen in Troy, just as we were when we first arrived at the Trojan palace. Showing her the wonders of the city. And his parents, treating her like a proper guest. I knew they welcomed her without hesitation. Kindness was their weakness. Just like complacency was mine. And in a world dominated by war and men and power, any glimmer of weakness was exploited. It took me too long to realize that. Too long to see past my own situation. I'd lost Zoisme and Paris because of it.

"Thank you for training me," I said, pushing away from the wall. "I should go prepare for supper."

Achilles was there suddenly, grabbing my wrist. "Alexis, wait."

I froze, clenching my jaw at the touch of his calloused hands. Hands that had been hardened for the only war he would ever see. Hands that trained all the Myrmidons. The hand that now shackled my wrist, holding me in place.

"War is not for the faint of heart," he said, his voice rumbling through me. "Even in the camp, danger is always lurking. If you still wish to journey with us to Troy, I need to know you will not go running after your prince. That you will not needlessly put you in harm's way."

I stared at his hand wrapped around mine and wondered if he felt the uptick in my heartbeat. If he knew that I lied when I muttered, "I won't."

If he did, Achilles didn't say anything. His storming eyes didn't settle, but when I wrenched my hand away, he let me go, the ghostly touch of his calloused lingering.

When I turned away and cradled my wrist to my chest, we both knew I was lying.