Night falls over the encampment, and the fires start to blaze.
Only then will he let you tend the wound. "It may have cost you an arm," you tell him, chiding. The child is still young. Not so much younger than you, but still so young. Full of youth. Achilles has yet to gain his years.
"The men should not see me being tended," he tells you, and doesn't wince as the bandage is wrapped tight. Perhaps divine flesh cannot feel the tightness, cannot feel the ache as the wound is pressed closed. Perhaps he can only feel those things in his heart.
"They are able to see you hurt," you tell him. "They know you are not invincible. Just the best."
He ignores your meaning, and flexes his forearm while you tie the bandage. "See? the arm is fine."
"It may not have been," he tells you. "It is not wise," you say, "to do a thing simply because you feel it." He turns away. You add, "better to be sensible."
"And what," he replies angrily, looking at the waves, "is sensible about war?" Behind you both, the fires are burning already, and behind you, your comrades burn in the pyres. Tomorrow it may be you.