Pain.
Sing of pain, Muse, the pain that spoke as the language of war. The grasses reeked of it, their soil saturated with the mixed blood of both Greeks and Trojans alike. The soldiers walked through this gore, their feet squelching and slipping as they scurried about the battlefield.
Those men, though lost within the cold folds of gnashing armor, roared and screamed as their spears whistled through the air and crunched through the skulls of their enemies. Men fell, and those left standing did their best to sidestep them so to not mutilate the dead flesh more than it already was.
Another shattered skull. The rhythmic grinding of shields against shields. The dull 'thunk' of yet another body meeting the wet ground. This was the symphony of war.
Within the core of this battle was a man unlike the others. His armor was the same, but his technique and movements were performed with such hardened grace and deadly accuracy that a passerby would wonder if he were simply an aiding God cloaked in a disguise.
Sweeping from Trojan to Trojan, this man wielded his spear like a poet's quill, flicking it from one man's kneecap to another man's eye sockets. He flashed across the battlefield, leaping from spot to spot with arrows whizzing past his ears and blood splashing across his bare legs. If one Greek were to trip over a dead man's ankle, the man would be there, warding off his attackers with a thrust of a large, plated shield.
The shield was what made the man truly stand out from the others, as it was crafted by the divine fingers of The Lame Hephaestus himself. Adorned with the carvings of sprawling villages and swirling seas, it was a pure tapestry of color to behold, and it was the last thing that many dying men saw that day.
This not-quite man was Achilles, a demigod among men consumed by such uncontrollable rage. His skin was scorched from the sun, tanned a reddened brown and sprinkled with the sand that he had thrown on himself in his grief.
Such grief did Achilles feel, that cursed emotion that walks so readily hand-in-hand with pain. He wept as his fought, his tears dribbling to the ground to blend with the gore of those slain.
As this enraged, violent man swept across the battlefield, another man watched from the outskirts, near the very wall of Troy. In his hand was a bow, and in his other was a single arrow. He fumbled with them, as if unaccustomed to wielding them. His skin was soft, hardly touched by either weapon or grime.
Standing alongside him was a large, muscular man. Though his proportions were realistic, those who glanced by could not help but do a double-take at the sight of him. When he spoke, his voice seemed to echo.
"Do not fear, Paris. Your arrow will hit its target."
The other man, Paris, seemed to quiver in his shoes. A greasy lock of blonde hair fell over his brow, and he gently tucked it away. "And what then, Apollo? What is to happen after?" he asked. "The Greeks are a strong people. Do you honestly believe that such a death will dishearten them to the point of capitulation?"
Through wrapped in a mortal disguise, Apollo's eyes still burned with an intensity that no mortal could match. "Achilles is their wall. Break through that wall while you still have yours." He paused, then shook his head. "Hector would have been more able for the job... but you'll do."
"Do not compare me to a dead man," Paris said. He lifted the cumbersome bow, and his untrained arm shivered from the weight of it. "I'll show you. I'll show you that I'm not so useless."
The god laughed. "I will never have use for a perverted sex addict."
Taking the arrow, Paris drew it into his bow. "We'll see," he said.
As soon he tried to aim, it became clear that it would be impossible to get a clear shot. The flailing bodies were too many, and Achilles simply rushed through them, like a bird within the many leaves of a tree. Every so often, Paris would catch mere glimpses of the giant shield, or the red crest of Achilles' helmet, but nothing more than that. The sheer orgy of bodies was just too great in number.
Finally, as his hands strained against the bow's girth, he heard Apollo whisper in his ear.
"Let it fly."
Paris let go. The arrow shrieked as it flew into the battle. It curved, worming its way through the men.
Achilles was butchering a Trojan, the point of his spear lodged in the man's face, piercing through the skin like a knife through warmed butter. Another man tried to rush him from behind, and Achilles turned his hips, using the momentum to slam his shield against the man's neck.
He did not hear the arrow coming, but as it buried itself into the thick flesh of his heel, he knew that it had been hit. He didn't cry out, but the pain surprised him. He had never felt pain so powerful or intense. It swam from his heel up to the rest of him, and it hurt.
Staggering, Achilles fell to the ground, his cheek pressed against the damp grass. He could smell the blood. It was a thick, deathly smell. His mouth hung open, and he could taste his own men.
His eyes blurred. The world grew hazy, but Achilles didn't mind. There was still some pain, yes, but the pain conquered the anger.
For the first time since his dear, sweet comrade's death, Achilles was in peace.
"Patroclus." His lips moved, but no voice came. He would see him now. That was all that mattered.
As he died, he felt himself being sucked into the ground, mingled with the blood, and down into nothingness.
