Achilles remained beside the broken wagon after the wounded had been carried away.
The fire had weakened, but smoke still drifted across the field, turning the morning light red. Patroclus lay beneath a cloak a few steps away. One hand remained outside it, his fingers curled around a splinter of wood.
Achilles looked at that hand.
"Take the men who can walk back to camp," he said. "Carry the rest."
A soldier glanced toward the body.
"And Patroclus?"
Achilles walked to him and knelt.
"I will take him."
The soldier lowered his head and moved away.
Achilles pulled the cloak back from Patroclus's face. Ash covered one cheek. Blood had dried beneath his jaw. He wiped it away with his thumb, then placed his fingers against Patroclus's neck.
Cold.
He had known it already. His hand remained there anyway.
Two soldiers approached to help him lift the body.
Achilles looked at them.
"I said I will take him."
They stopped.
He carried Patroclus from the burning camp himself.
