Disclaimer: The Iliad belongs to Homer, regardless of whether he existed or not. Troy belongs to a lot of people, but definately not Homer.

A lot of changes have occured in the adaption of the Iliad to Troy, but Patroclus's death is one of the more major ones. Where in the tale he died as a result of his own foolishness, in the movie he dies as the result of his own bravery. In my opinion this not only changes the characters of Achilles and Patroclus, it also changes their relationship
-----------

.

"Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And need of a world of men for me."

-- "Parting at Morning," Robert Browning

.

The armor is sitting outside his tent. It's been there since his argument with Agamemnon. It is dimmer than it was on the day that we first landed on the beaches of Troy -- the sand has dulled the luster.

The dullness is apparent despite the fact that it is still dark, because the sun is beginning to rise and the Trojans' fires in the camp burn brightly enough to be day. It is obvious that Achilles's armor has faded slightly from disuse.

In this current state, I might just be worthy enough to wear it.

I strap on the shin guards first, and I have to wrench the laces tightly so that they will not slide as I move. My legs are not as thick as his are.

I do not want to do this. I have tried everything I know to convince him to put aside his irritation with King Agamemnon and rejoin the fight; but I do not have a silver tongue, and nothing I say has worked. After all, I have argued with him before, on many things, and he knows that I will never fight him directly. He is my cousin, and he is my guardian, and he is my hero, and he is Achilles. Open disobedience is something I will never give him, because I cannot bring myself to create any dissention against the command of the man I respect the most.

Even this covert disobedience hurts me.

But I will not stay behind any longer.

I don't understand how he can still remain in his tent while we are under attack by the Trojans. He must hear the screams, and the horns calling the men to formation, and the tremendous crackle of the flames as our camp burns. He must understand the danger. The Trojans are practically snapping at our heels; if they are not driven off, he will have no choice but to fight -- regardless of his quarrel -- because not doing so will mean death. I don't understand how his hatred of King Agamemnon can run so deep that he is willing to let his countrymen be slaughtered.

. . . No, I do understand. He has never held himself under the authority of any king, and he has little regard for those who do otherwise. Agamemnon's Greece, Odysseus's Greece, is not Achilles's Greece. He feels no kinship with his countrymen, because he is beyond them.

But I am not. And I cannot watch them be slaughtered any longer.

I can't see his sword, even in the growing light, so instead I pick up the greaves and slide them over my wrists. I do not have to wrench the laces this time -- our arms are more similar than our legs.

He will never forgive me for this. Not only am I going into battle for the first time and against his explicit orders, I will be defiling the glory of his name by pretending to be him. And to further damn myself in his eyes, I am taking his Myrmidons with me. My cousin and I are similar in build, and my face will be hidden by the helmet -- as long as I don't speak, his men will follow me.

Greece is my country, even if it is not Achilles's. And I cannot just watch my countrymen die any longer.

Once the greaves are situated on my arms, I notice his sword. I missed it earlier because it is half-hidden beneath his breastplate, and the greaves were lying on top of the hilt. I lift the sword and pull it free of the sheath, shaking the sand out, before sliding it back in and buckling the belt around my waist.

I can see the Trojans at the top of the hill, waiting for the dawn to fully break before attacking. I am running out of time. In the camp, slaves are struggling to put out the fires, and all the Greek soldiers are gathering into formation to prepare for battle. All but Achilles's men.

There are less than fifty of us, but we can turn this attack against the Trojans. All we have to do is join the battle. All we have to do is have Achilles fight again.

I lift his breastplate and pull it over my head, frowning as it slides roughly against my tunic. His chest is slightly wider than mine. If I'm fortunate, the discrepancy won't be noticed. If I'm blessed, the gaps beneath the armpits and in the side where it buckles won't get me killed.

He asked me once who I will fight for after he dies. But I fight for him. I have always fought for him. I will always fight for him. I will bleed for him, and if the gods favor my effort, I might be able to prove that I am worthy to be one of Achilles's men, one of the Myrmidons.

I will bleed as him, and I will stop this assault on Greece's sons. If everyone sees that Achilles has returned to the battle, the Trojans will fall back in confusion and our men will take heart. I do not have to actually be him -- all they need is the idea of him.

Achilles's quarrel with Agamemnon has nearly destroyed us, but the men will still take heart at the sight of him. Even if he never forgives me for my disobedience, I must do this.

The soldiers have to believe in Achilles. Even if they mean nothing to him, he is their inspiration; because men must have someone greater than themselves to admire. That is what pushes them to greatness themselves. That is why I know what I must do.

He is the one who taught me how to fight. Everything I know, every sword stroke, every move, every tactic, he taught to me. No one can pretend to be him better than I can. If he will not join the battle, then I will, in his place.

This war needs Achilles. I only pray that I will not dishonor his armor and his image, and that he will not disown me for my actions.

The sky is gray, and the sun will break over the waves of the Aegean at any moment. The Trojans will assail us soon.

I lift his helmet and quickly shake off the sand. If it does not fit, then all this is for nothing. As much as I need to have my face hidden, I also need to be able to see if I want to fight.

I close my eyes and pull the helmet onto my head. Then I straighten my back and open my eyes again, gazing at the dawn- and fire-lit camp.

I can see.

I lift his shield and grab one of the spears lying on the ground before stepping out from behind the tent. There are still no war cries, no crashing of metal, so the Trojans cannot have attacked yet. I still have a few moments to gather the men and make it to the ranks.

"My lord?"

My actions are blessed -- Eudorus's voice is behind me.

I turn only part-way, so that he will not see my face too closely, before raising my spear and shaking it. Then, with a war cry like that which I have heard my cousin use so many times before, I begin to run toward the place where the Greeks are standing in wait for the Trojans' assault.

Barely a second passes before I hear Eudorus calling the rest of the Myrmidons to take up their weapons and hurry into battle. They will catch up to me before I am even half-way to the ranks -- Achilles's men are never unprepared for a fight, even when they are told not to participate in it. We may reach the lines before the Trojans even attack.

We may save so many lives, all because of the idea that Achilles has not abandoned the Greeks.

And as long as I do not speak, the men will follow me.