Chapter Text
The blood slowed from its gushing and now flows sluggishly from the body’s head wound. Patroclus watched the red with rising panic, the anger from the struggle was long gone. Now it is anxiety. How will he face his father? How will he face the father of the murdered boy? The nobleman would not let Patroclus live a moment longer in peace.
He runs.
Patroclus runs to the palace. Through the gardens behind the palace, he races up the stairs to his bed chamber. He collapses to the floor and curls into himself, making himself as small as possible. Patroclus knew what would happen next, he was not valuable enough for Father to loss a nobleman over. Patroclus will be sent away or killed depending on the court’s mood. All he can do is wait. He begins to feel guilt climbing into his throat. Patroclus has taken a life, no matter how cruel the boy had been. He chooses to crawl into his bed and wraps his blankets tight, as if to hide from the world for a moment longer. He sobs are stifled into the blanket as he waits for the inevitable.
The moon had started its journey up into the sky before Father comes to Patroclus’ room. His gait is weighed down with the preemptive grief for his only family. His eyes, which shone the same color as Patroclus’, hold tears for all the fame he has now lost. Father had never cared for Mother, neither in his heart nor palace. After the birth of his heir, Father had ceased thinking of her.
To Patroclus, his father’s tears are uncharacteristic. He has only ever seen the stone hearted man who chose to use Patroclus for fame. Once by marriage, once by sports. Patroclus had rejected both and had therefore endured a lonely childhood shunned by his father.
Each word leaves Father with great effort. He sat at the edge of Patroclus’ bed and lays a hand on the cot. “Patroclus I cannot defend you. The council was agitated” Patroclus shudders at the anticipation of punishment. “You will leave the kingdom at noon tomorrow. The king of Phthia will raise boys with no name as his wards. You will go there.” His father brings his hand as if to rest it in Patroclus’ hair. His hand hovers mere inches above Patroclus’s curls, he whispers into the night, “I am sorry.”
Abruptly, he stands and walks out of the room without a glance back. Patroclus laid and listened as his father’s footfalls fade into nothing. Patroclus’ breaths became sharper and faster with each passing second. He cannot do nothing; how would he survive?
He must leave his bed chamber. There must be a method for him to survive Phthia.
He sits up in bed, his gaze flies frantic around his room. Anything that may appease the gods and lessen his loneliness. His eyes land on the one thing that he held most precious, as the gods would demand nothing short of his most cherished.
Moonlight reflects off the polished wooden lyre as Patroclus sneaks into the forest, out of sight of the guards. He needed more space to do as he intended. The cover of the trees and the lush green grass offer him a sort of privacy from responsibilities that even his own chamber did not.
Patroclus can still recall the humming and small lyre his mother would play at night. When she passed, she was too frail to lift the heavy metal lyres. She preferred the light wood that Patroclus could carry into her bed. She could not recall his name, but the melody flowed as if it was in her blood. The lyre was not golden, it was not of beautiful craftsmanship, but it was invaluable due the intricate memories of his mother. His hands shake slightly as he attempts to strike the matches.
Finally, a spark, he lights the offering bowl with sticks and watches the flames grow. The lyre disappears into the flames as Patroclus prays. To anyone who would care to listen, please. He did not know what exactly he needed, but there must be a being who can aid him in his problems. Patroclus sits in front of the flames with his hands clasped and eyes shut tight. The desperation grew with each crackle of the flames reaching his ears.
A gentle hand rests on his shoulder, the pressure firm and grounding. Patroclus did not open his eyes. He could not face whoever had chosen to take pity on him. He instead speaks with a trembling voice, “Please, would you be able to answer my prayer?”
The hand moved to hold Patroclus’ chin and tilts his face to look up at the figure. Patroclus opens his eyes to see a beautiful man, with golden hair and tanned skin. His eyes shine like molten gold. In his other hand, the god holds the lyre that Patroclus had just burnt, fully restored to its beauty. When he speaks, Patroclus can hear the sounds of wind chimes in his voice. “You’ve offered me a truly prized instrument and made me happy, what can I offer you in exchange Patroclus?”
Apollo
The god of music and healing had answered Patroclus’ pleas. They say you mustn’t have a favored god, but Patroclus had always been inclined towards the gifts his mother had given him. Grace and musicality. But how would he put into words his deepest pleas? Even the most gracious of eternal beings can be fickle with how they gave blessings.
He treads carefully, through one tearful gasp he begins to speak, “I have murdered a boy, and been exiled from my home. I am fearful of my future, I cannot defend myself, my lord. I will be living in a kingdom where my life will have no value.”
“You feel guilt for a death that was in your defense Patroclus, you haven shown me your ability to defend yourself. Do not blame yourself for that.” Patroclus feels the relief wash through his small frame. The god was not angered.
Apollo sits in front of the boy; his presence lights up the grass surrounding the two. He began to strum the lyre gently. “As for your value…it is true that you will struggle for the respect of others. They will see you as weaker than your compatriots. I cannot change their views.” This was expected. Patroclus was smaller than others his age, and through he was good at combat, he preferred the finer arts. It was inevitable that his royal life will make others see him as softer.
“I can, however, give you value. You respect my domains of power. I can gift you something no other gods can.”
Patroclus felt Apollo lay his hand of his head. “From this moment on, you shall be a vessel of my gift. You will show to others the strength that lies within healing.” The light surrounding them grows in intensity for a split moment before vanishing. Patroclus did not feel any different.
“My lord?” Patroclus wipes at his drying tears and asks.
Apollo laughs before speaking, “Just wait my boy!” He snaps his fingers, and a white bunny hops into the clearing. It moves slowly towards Patroclus, dragging its left foot. When it reaches the pair, it sits and watches Patroclus curiously. “Go on boy, give her a pet.”
Patroclus reaches out hesitantly. He was never allowed any pets in the palace except for dogs. Those too must be hunting dogs. Patroclus never cared much for them and in return the dogs avoided him. The bunny seemed to pick up on his hesitance and began to sniff is still hand.
He slowly raised it and laid his palm on her delicate skull. Immediately, he felt a sharp pain pass through his body. It localized on his foot. Patroclus quickly uncrossed his legs and checked. There may have been snakes nearby.
It was pristine. Not a cut or puncture wound on his foot. But where? The pain began to fade as quickly as it had arrived. He looks up at the god who was watching the moment with avid interest. “Did you feel it?”
The bunny was still waiting by his side. “It was only temporary. Now, if you will it, you can make it permanent.” Patroclus sat with his mouth agape. That was not possible. How can he? A mortal, be given a healing gift, akin to gods.
“She is waiting for you, Patroclus. Do not hesitate.” Patroclus reached out and let his hand rest on the white animal. The pain returns, but it is dulled.
“How can I heal her?”
“You must be determined; you must be willing and selfless in your thoughts; only then will your gift be able to perform.” How could Patroclus be selfless? He was only a boy of 11 who had yet to experience life.
Patroclus imagines the most selfless person he had known.
He imagines his mother. He thinks of her smile. When Patroclus was born, he had inflicted irreparable damage to her body. Her mind and body began to slowly deteriorate. And yet, she found it in her to love him to her death. She had a selflessness that allowed her to birth him and give this boy she has never met before life in exchange of her own.
He is his mother’s son. He is Philomela’s son, and now he is Apollo’s gift incarnate.
The pain in his foot becomes sharper, but he does not remove his hand. Instead, he picks up the rabbit with both hands and holds her close to his chest. A long moment passes, where all Patroclus does is breathe through pain. It begins to clear slowly, and he opens his eyes to see a beaming god watching him.
“I knew you were special, Patroclus.” Apollo removes the bunny from his hands and sets her down. She begins to hop, in circles and disappears into the trees with a speed she did not have before.
“You will make me proud.”
When the morning comes for Patroclus to leave, he sits on the horse with only gentle ache in his leg but courage in his heart. He will become part of history.