"He shall be safe in body and shall want for nothing. Tell me- could even you, the son of a god, offer him such a fate?"
Achilles' green-gold eyes do not burn so much as smolder in shadows of the anonymous Myrmidon tent where the two men have agreed to meet in secret on this, the second month of the war. In the hospitable warmth of the tent's fire two coarse, untouched cups of wine sit between the men, while Poseidon's vast, unloving ocean lays before, and Achilles' and Hector's many loyal legions doze behind their masters. Tonight, even the gods are unaware of this small transaction. The two men face each other as equals- or nearly so. Achilles, the lion, considers Hector, a prince among men, as he sits humbly before him in soft linen robes of understatedly regal periwinkle. It is the first time the Greek soldier has seen the young warlord out of his battle dress, and he finds the gentle robes suit Hector's subtle nobility. Even so, the Trojan prince looks tired, his mud-bronze muscles taught and aching through hanging robes. Hector does not kill for sport, and the days of blood and loss are beginning to show on the leader's tempered brow. It has been nearly six hours since Hector overwhelmed Patroclus in one on one combat and took the youth captive. Hector's death could have come at the hands of his powerful enemy at any hour, and yet there is a steady, perhaps even stubborn resolve in him, Achilles did not anticipate. It had taken courage to ask for a meeting with the hero of the Greeks, but it had taken something inhuman for Hector to propose what now lay before them.
"What I do tonight," Achilles voice is also uncharacteristically soft and careworn as a piece of sea glass worn down by time and the waves of Phtia, "I do not as the son of a god, nor as a kingmaker or a warrior. May the gods strip no glory from my name for giving up my blood, my cousin, to you, my enemy. Yet I know what you speak is truth. Patroclus is young. Too young to spill blood and yet his blood could be just as easily be spilt. Today proved it." Achilles sighs, touching his shield with practiced fingertips. His eyes meek Hector's grey gaze. "This is not the life I want for him."
The Trojan prince nodded, his features plain and honest to Achilles, "Then let me take the boy. I leave for my palace in Hatha tomorrow. He will be safe there. He will never be called to war or forced to fight for a king. He will live in peace behind my walls."
Achilles stood, and Hector rose to meet him. The golden haired warrior placed a hand on the prince, "I know you are an honorable prince, Hector, Breaker of Horses, and a soldier to be feared. Priam is right to send you away from this ignoble fray. Take care of Patroclus. Since his birth in seventeen years ago, I fear I have been away from him too much. I do not think his uncle, Trolius, was always kind to him."
Hector nodded solemnly, "You do me honor, Swift-footed Achilles. Your blood is safe with me. Come to Hatha to visit when your slovenly kings free you from this accursed war. You will be welcome."