His smooth, pale fingers curled around her hand as those grey eyes searched her face, the usual coldness of them softening slightly. "I'll be your soldier," he breathed. She ripped her hand out of his grasp. "I don't need a soldier," she seethed. "I have myself. And that is enough."
"What has Hector ever done to me?" (pg. 243). For 10 years Achilles and Patroclus tried to avoid the inevitable truth of the prophecy, fighting the idea of the war itself, but eventually the true war had to happen, and they both died.