Disclaimer: Umm...well, who wrote Troy? Okay, whoever did the movie and all, theirs. And Homer. Gotta love Homer.
The morning sun was just rising, its rays gently probing the gray earth, not mindful of the carnage that had strewn the sand just hours before. The Trojans had cleared their dead as the Greeks had taken theirs and the funeral fires had burned late into the night. Only one pyre was raised higher, raised on a hill of sand and built with strong timbers until it towered over the others. There Achilles had placed coins on his cousin's eyes and removed Patroclus' seashell necklace, the one that was clasped around the white cloth that bound his wounded throat. He had cast a torch into the straw and watched it burn until the entire pyre crumbled into ash.
Patroclus had not been wearing the armor. He had been robed in white, in his finest garments, and looked like the man he would have become. Not as he had died, as the boy that he was. And wearing Achilles' armor. His armor.
But Patroclus had worn it last.
Patroclus had died in it.
In his tent Achilles stood solemnly before his armor. He breathed. He set his jaw. He raised his head. His fingers shrank back before he took a breath and lifted his greaves from their place in the sand. Firmly, he cinched them over his calves, imagining in his mind that Patroclus had done the same, had knelt in the same spot here and tied the greaves onto his legs. Next came bracers. Patroclus had known that, hadn't he? He had probably tightened them, Achilles imagined, because his arms were smaller. Not much, but enough. Then the breastplate. Achilles strapped on the armor with more force than usual because all he could think of was how Patroclus' heart must have beat wildly against the breastplate at the fear of his cousin's wrath, at the exultation of leading the Myrmidons, from the panic when Hector dealt the death blow.
Finally, the helmet. Achilles stood staring at it, seeing its bronze brightness but seeing also the way the rising sun must have glinted off the helm as it sat on his cousin's head, the high black crest showing that it was Achilles who wore the armor and who led the Myrmidons into battle against Hector.
Perhaps, if he had allowed Patroclus to fight, if he had let his cousin go and then protected him from real dangers, if he had asserted his own right to fight the prince of Troy, then Patroclus might have lived. He might have had his own armor, crafted in like manner to Achilles', and worn his own helmet in battle with a matching crest. Then the men would have cried, "Achilles and Achilles' blood go out to fight!"
Achilles lifted the helmet from its place and held it lightly in his hands. Hector would have lifted the helmet. First he would have placed strong, commanding hands on it to lift it as victor from the loser's head. Then his warrior hands might have gentled when he saw the young face in the sand. Odysseus had said that Hector was stricken to see he had killed a boy. Patroclus had raised his head up but couldn't breathe and the blood had run out like a river from his throat. Hector had been merciful, Odysseus said, to finish Patroclus. They had ceased fighting for the day. The prince of Troy had not known it was his cousin. The prince of Troy would not have killed him if he could have known it was a boy and not a man.
But the prince of Troy had and that was all that mattered. If not for Hector, he would not be here, preparing himself for battle at sunrise, all alone with his armor and his thoughts. If not for Hector, he would not ever touch the armor again save to reverently stroke two places with his fingers: the breastplate where Patroclus' heart had bled, and the helm where Patroclus' tears had wet the sand along with the blood. "Achilles and Achilles' blood go out to fight!" Yes, they would. But not Patroclus. He would lose whatever blood he must so long as he covered Patroclus' blood with Hector's. They would all lose what their hearts gave them, because Hector began it. Unwittingly, unwillingly, he began it.
So Achilles strapped on his armor, fitting the helmet over his golden head and hearing the hollow sound his sword made when he slipped it in his sheath, the way he could hear his breath as it moved between the metal cheek coverings, the way his range of vision was made smaller. The sun rose higher and with it rose the prince of Troy, preparing to meet Achilles before the gates. He strode out, wondering what the god-man was wondering as he saw him approach. Achilles knew. He saw Hector stride out to meet him and saw the last thing that Patroclus saw. Before all went red. As red as Hector's blood on the sand. Then, when it was all over, he turned and saw the ocean, and felt the tears that Patroclus had shed run down his face. They would never cross it and go home.
He wished never to wear his armor again.