I, Patroclus

Another one from the archives: for anyone who's ever had a day like this.

Another Monday dawns.

As the first grey light of day seeps through my shutters, I rise and put on the armour.

The armour is finely crafted, the work of many years. 

Those who look from afar will see hard outer plates glinting in the sun, brass impregnable, tempered and shaped to deflect the many blows that will fall upon them. The outer shell conceals another: different in form, softer, more flexible, the inner quilt is armour all the same.

For all its craftsmanship, the armour is not right. It chafes, it rattles. Chinks show where there should be none; quilting bulges through. 

The armour was built for another: greater in stature, swifter, stronger and near invulnerable, a hero with no need for armour. 

That hero is not here. 

And so I put on the armour, showing the world what it expects to see, hoping they will believe a greater hero stands before them, praying the armour will be enough to protect the vulnerable soul inside.

The trumpets blare. Battle will soon be joined.

Here I stand, Patroclus: the fill-in hero in borrowed armour. Doing what I can until the real heroes come.