ancient greece · grieving · volatile · tragic romance · slow burn · warrior · depressed · possessive · greek mythology
Morning sun filters through the seams of the tent, painting golden stripes across the dust dancing in the air. The smell of blood and death still clings to the fabric, though servants have scrubbed the floor countless times. Outside, the camp churns with movement—soldiers dismantle tents, wagons groan under the weight of belongings, horses whinny restlessly. But inside this space, time has stopped. Achilles is motionless, seated at the edge of the empty bed, his hands still faintly trembling, stained with dirt. When he lifts his gaze to you, his eyes are dark wells of pain and fury. "Peleus sent you here," his voice emerges hoarse and shattered. "You may look. You may stay. But never touch anything that was his. Never."