Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Patroclus had learned from a young age that the most dangerous types of anger were most often silent. As he stood in front of his father, the cold stone chilling his feet, the sunlight filtering through the throne room’s windows doing nothing to warm the frigid marble of the room, Patroclus knows that this would be one of those times. 

He stares at his feet, and tries his very best to not notice his father’s piercing gaze in front of him. Another thing he had learned from a young age was that it was better to remain silent in times of such anger. The bruises and scars that littered his thin frame had taught him well.

“Tell me why she did not choose you, Patroclus,” his father demands, his jaw tense with an anger just below boiling. 

To be truthful, there could have been several reasons why Tyndareus’ daughter - the beautiful Helen of Sparta - had not chosen him out of the many suitors that afternoon. He was nine; not yet a man. Their lands held not much else besides gold (and dwindling gold, at that) and infertile land. The fact that his own father would rather take his son’s wife into his bed than his own. 

(This last reason was severely off-putting. No father wanted to give away his daughter to a place where she would surely be assaulted.) 

“I do not know, my lord,” is what Patroclus says instead. 

He is answered with a blow to the head so sudden he would have fallen if he did not catch himself at the last second. He knows better than to fall; there was no telling if his father would allow him to rise if he did. 

“Do not lie to me, boy,” his father hisses at him, and Patroclus keeps his gaze firmly at his feet, ignoring the blooming pain at his skull. At least the blow had not drawn blood.

“I swear I do not know, my lord,” he insists, trying his best to keep his voice even. There is a moment of silence, and he holds his breath as he waits for the next blow. But it never comes. Instead, he hears his father sigh with frustration and sit down on his throne at the other end of the room. 

“Then answer me this, Patroclus: why have the Gods cursed me with a son so worthless that I cannot even marry him off to be rid of him?” 

Patroclus does not answer, and tries to focus on the coldness of the stone beneath him rather than the words his father feeds him. 

“It is your mother’s fault,” he continues. “I should have known the moment I saw her that she would not produce anything better than what I got. A simple son from a simple wife.” 

Patroclus swallows, and stays silent. She was only simple because his father had made her so. They all knew this; his father, Patroclus himself, even the servants and the slave women who haunted his father’s bed chambers. 

A moment passes, and Patroclus foolishly allows himself to hope that perhaps this time his father would be merciful and let him leave with nothing more than a bruise forming on the back of his head. 

But perhaps he is as simple as his father says. Because that is never the case. 

“Come here,” he hears him say after a deciding moment. 

In another world, if he were stronger or braver, he would have turned and left. Or - better yet - he would have stayed and fought. He would hit the man as hard as he could until he fell, and kept hitting until he stayed on the ground. But it is as his father says. A simple son from a simple wife. 

He shuffles closer, and can only hope that no bones break this time. 

~ 

His mother cries as she dabs away the blood from his face. She is not gentle; it seems she is trying to not only wipe away the blood from his split lip, but also the hurt that he has worn since his father had first hit him. He tries to not flinch. 

“I am so sorry, my son,” she cries. “Oh, my poor boy, I am so sorry.” 

He sits, and lets her clean his face, and tries not to groan with pain when she pads at the bruise starting to form around his eye. It would darken soon, and there would be no hiding it until it healed. 

“Better me than you, Mama,” he says, and tries to smile, but is sure it looks more like a grimace than anything else reassuring. 

She only cries harder at that, pulling him into her warm embrace, as if her hold alone could heal all the hurt his body carried.  

“Did you have a good trip, anyway?” she asks after a moment, when her cries had started to subside. 

Patroclus only shrugs. “There is not much to tell. She did not choose me, and I guess that’s all that matters.” 

She pulls away and wipes at her eyes before giving him a playful smile. “Were there no other boys there? Did you not make any friends in Tyndareus’ hall?” 

Patroclus only smiles with her. It was best to humour her notions rather than dismiss them. Besides, he hated seeing his mother cry. 

“I was the youngest there by a lot. They didn’t take much notice of me.” It was true. The only reason he might have been memorable was the fact that the youngest person besides him was nearly ten years his senior. The fact that a child was brought as a suitor was shocking enough to be struck up in later conversation, he supposes. 

“Well, you must have left an impression, if you received such a lovely set of dice,” his mother grins, and holds out the ivory cubes in her hand. He only gapes at them. They must’ve fallen out of his pocket, or she had taken them when he hadn’t noticed and was now trying to use them to make him smile.  

“Wherever did you get them? They are so lovely, my son,” she asks. 

“A soldier gave them to me. I think he pitied me.” 

“He must’ve been rich,” she says, grinning at them. “Ivory is hard to come by so far south. And how lucky of you to have them now!” 

Patroclus grins along with her. Her smile was infectious whenever it showed; a quality his father was rarely graced enough to see. “I do not think so. They aren’t that special.” 

“Nonsense, just look at the black markings. See how they shine?” 

He looks closer, and sure enough, he sees how the sunlight of the room dances off the black paint on the sides. Flat paint was usually used on dice.. He supposes it is a bit unusual, but not unheard of. 

“They must be magic, Patroclus.” 

He looks at his mother, and keeps the smile on his face. The dice were not magic, but he would lie to her to keep her happy. His father was true on this fact. A simple wife, he had said. 

“I’m sure they are, Mama.” 

She grins, and brings them to her mouth and kisses them, then draws Patroclus’ hands towards her to hand them back. “There,” she says. “I have blessed them for you. Keep them with you, and I will always be there. I promise.” 

Patroclus holds the dice in his hands for the rest of the day, and keeps them under his pillow at night so that he might not lose them when he sleeps. 

~ 

Patroclus has never seen the real sea. He stares at the grass ocean of his father’s kingdom, and thinks he would prefer to see the vast, deep azure of the water than the yellow grass of the plains before him. 

He sits on the top of a hill, the sun beating down viciously on his back, playing with the gifted dice instead of sitting between the stifling halls of the classroom. 

(The teachers had leered down at him, the question of exactly what the young prince did to warrant such a notable bruise around his eye this time bright in their eyes. Patroclus had simply sunk lower in his seat, and tried to ignore them. 

But he could hear them whispering. The other boys had grown silent and stared at him when he’d walked into the courtyard, all of them pausing around the various athletic equipment they would be using that day. Their notice was worse than the actual beating, he had decided at that moment, because the shame hurt worse than his father’s fists ever could. He bets that was the intent. 

“What’d he do this time?” one boy had asked, and Patroclus had smoothed his fingers over the smooth ivory of the dice. 

“Did you not hear?” Another boy had answered. “He’s got too much of the Queen in him, my father says. Y’know how she is, right?” 

“She’s so slow,” another boy added, “that she can’t even count her own fingers. People like that, you can’t even beat ‘em right. Their head’s not right enough to even know what’s happening.” 

“I heard she has to get slaves to feed her, ‘cause it takes too much thinking to chew her own food, or else she’ll choke.” 

“I heard she can’t shit right, either. Has to wear cloth around her… lower half - and everything so she doesn’t spill everywhere.” 

Patroclus had rolled the dice in his hands, and tried to unclench his jaw. Rumors were all they were, and he would not treat them as any more than they were worth. 

“Maybe that’s why the king beat him. He’s just like his mum, they say. He must’ve shit himself and the king had a fit.” 

“Can’t say I blame him. If I had a kid like that, I’d beat him too.” 

Patroclus might have choked, because the air suddenly became so hot and thin and he couldn’t breathe. So he’d run, out of the courtyard, past the teachers, and towards anywhere that was away from anyone else. ) 

The air outside wasn’t much better, but at least it didn’t reek of the sweat of the other boys. Here, he could look up at the sky, and pretend he was falling into the blue oblivion of above.

He could have stayed there comfortably for years. It was the first time he’d been truly alone in a while, and while others might thrive in the company of others, Patroclus found his own content in solitude. It is then, of course, when he hears footsteps trudging up the hill from behind him. 

He looks down from the sky, and sees the looming figure of one of the boys from his lessons. He grasps for his name, starting with a C, he thinks. 

Ah, yes. Clysonymus. He is unfortunately familiar with him, and also with his cruelty. 

“What are you holding?” He asks - no, demands. 

“Nothing,” Patroclus says, and tries to hide the dice behind his back. They are his, made special from his own mother, and he is the prince . He has the right to keep his own belongings, no matter how inconsequential they are. 

“Let me see,” he insists, trudging closer towards him, but Patroclus stands his ground, and tries his best to look intimidating. He absently thinks it would look more amusing than threatening to the other boy. 

“No.” 

But the boy already knew what they were. 

“I want them.” This was not a threat. And that fact alone was enough to make rage start to rise. Was he not even worth threatening? 

“No,” he says, trying to make his voice stronger. 

The boy starts forward, now exasperated that he’d not yet complied. “Let me have them.” 

He would not let him anywhere near the dice. They were sacred in a way the boy could never understand even if he tried. “They are mine, ” he practically snarls. 

This does not deter him, in fact - it seems to move  him forward. He makes a reach for the dice, but Patroclus quickly ducks from the boy’s grasp. This, however, only brings a cruel smirk on his face. 

“Coward,” he taunts. And with that, Patroclus can start to feel a red-hot anger bubble higher. It was one thing to believe a prince was a coward, but it was a very different thing to tell him outright. If his father cared enough, he could have the boy exiled for such insolence. 

“I am no coward,” he counters. 

“Your father thinks so. He told my father as much.” 

“He did not.” 

The boy stalked forward, like a predator eyeing its prey. “Are you calling me a liar?” 

And that - there - was a challenge. If Patroclus backed down now, his father would beat him for cowardice. If he fought, the boy would beat him instead. 

But he would rather take the boy’s soft fists instead of his father’s calloused ones. 

He goes to push the boy away, but is suddenly pulled back by the collar of his tunic. Another figure dashes in front of him, startling the boy. 

“He’s not worth it, Clysonymus,” a voice says, and Patroclus grips the dice in his fist tighter. “Leave him alone.” 

The boy’s eyes dart between him and the figure between them, his fists still clenched, ready to strike. He seethes, and makes his decision. 

He shakes his head, and walks back down the hill, where he came. Patroclus gapes at the figure, and it does not turn until the boy has descended completely. Then, when he does turn around, Patroclus knows for certain that he has never seen this person before. 

A million thoughts are running through his head. Who are you? What do you want? Why why why? 

“Why did you do that?” Is what came out instead. 

The other boy looks at him. “You needed help,” he says, like it should be obvious. 

And just like that, the anger is back. Patroclus scowls at him. “I did not need it.” 

“He would have beat you. Did you want your other eye to match the first?” 

A mixture of shame and anger rushes through him. He decides that the stifling air inside the courtyard would be preferable to spending any more time with this boy and his bluntness. 

“Just… stay away from me. I don’t need your help,” he says, and turns to descend the hill before the boy could reply. 

~ 

Miles and miles away, the Prince Achilles of Phthia lounges in the sunlight, plucking a nonsensical tune on a lyre that he balances on his lap. 

Time passes slowly in this room. He keeps plucking at the strings, no particular melody arising to his mind. 

He turns, looks to the closed door to his right, and frowns. He feels like he was meant to meet someone today, someone important. His father was gone, and so any potential travellers would be led to him in the king’s absence. 

A merchant? An advisor come to see him, perhaps? He was meant to meet someone today, this very hour, he’s sure of it. Why is it he can not remember who? 

Time passes, and the door remains shut. Achilles plucks at the strings of his lyre, composing songs for the stranger he has not yet met, trying to ease the nagging feeling in his mind that he has forgotten something significant.

Chapter Text

Patroclus tries to avoid the stranger as much as he can. This task proves itself to be much more difficult than he thought, as it seems as if the boy is everywhere, now that he is aware of his presence. 

He learns his name in passing. Xenokrates, or Zee for short. He is the son of a farmer who is in debt to the king, and so he would attend classes with the rest of the boys in the morning, and work in the palace to help pay off his father’s debt from the afternoons onward. 

Patroclus ignores him for the most part. He still isn’t sure as to why the stranger deemed himself fit to be his saviour that fateful day on the hill, but the anger at the assumption he needed help still stings. Pity was sometimes worse than outright hatred. 

Although, the stranger does not seem to be content with leaving their brief confrontation at what it was. Patroclus is sitting in the shade of the courtyard beside the training swords, rolling his dice in his hands, when he approaches. 

“Would you like to play trinity with me?” he asks with a smile. Patroclus stares at him, trying to decide whether or not the gesture is well-intended or not. The stranger takes his silent judgement as confusion. 

“You know, with the dice?” he elaborates. “Have you ever played trinity before?” 

 With that, Patroclus practically jumps to his feet, and casts a sharp glare at the stranger. He does not give the boy a chance to protest before he dashes out of the courtyard and into a hallway. 

He sees the stranger again at dinner. He and his father - the old indebted farmer - sit on the far side of the hall, where they are out of sight and mind. Except that for some reason, Patroclus cannot seem to drive him away from his head. 

None of the other boys ever paid him attention. Maybe saving him from another bruised eye had been a fluke, some cruel joke of the Gods that he was yet to understand. But overt acts of kindness were never displayed, and that is what puzzled him the most about this stranger.

He looks up to where the stranger and his father sit, and the stranger sees him. He smiles and waves a friendly hello. 

Patroclus frowns, and focuses on his food. 

It is a week after this when the stranger starts to join in with the rest of the boys for physical training. And it is there where Patroclus learns that this other boy is easily the best fighter he’s ever seen. 

(Although, he will admit, he hasn’t seen many good fighters to begin with. But the stranger certainly makes the top of his confessedly short list.) 

Patroclus watches from the sidelines as the stranger fights each of the boys under the watchful eye of their instructors. His movements are careful, and calculated; executed with a grace he had not seen before, not even in the demonstrations their instructors often gave. 

Give him an event, and he will best it. Wrestling? Spears? Swords? He bested them all with frightening accuracy. It astounded not only the other boys, but the instructors as well. It appeared that they had nothing they could teach him. 

This, of course, started rumours about him, as any greatness is like to do. 

“I heard he trained with the Amazons.”

“I heard he was gifted by Demeter because of his hard work in the fields with his father.” 

“Nevermind gifted, I heard his mother is a goddess, and that’s why he fights like he does.”

Patroclus never had any good luck with rumours, and so he did his best to avoid them altogether. Besides, what the other boys were suggesting was preposterous in the first place. 

It is the hottest day of the summer when each boy is called upon in front of the class to show the others the skills they have learned thus far. Patroclus had always dreaded these days. He would often come back with more bruises than was strictly necessary, as the other boys often chose him as their opponent for an easy pass. They knew he was often too weak to fight back with any threat to themselves. 

Patroclus stands in the back during the event, hoping that if commotion becomes distracted enough, he could slip away and avoid the interaction altogether. 

But that does not happen. The instructors had the good sense to keep the doors shut during the event, to avoid both any stragglers from wandering in, and to keep any scared boys from wandering out. 

A spear is thrust into his hands, and he is shoved into the middle of the courtyard, the sun beating down on his back. 

“Now,” one of the instructors calls into the crowd of boys. “Who would like to be Patroclus’ partner for the presentation?” 

He can see the other boys start to grin. His eyes pick Clysonymus out of the crowd, who is making his way to the front. Patroclus can only stare at him with wide eyes, his feet stuck to the dusty stone of the courtyard. Please, do not let it be Clysonymus, he thinks. He can’t imagine the other boy would go easier on him due to the nature of their last interaction. 

 “I will,” a voice calls out from the crowd. 

The crowd stops, a silence filling the air as the figure of the stranger makes his way to the front, and into the courtyard. 

The instructors gape at him. “Are you sure, Xenokrates?” They only ask because they do not wish for such a good fighter to be put to shame with such a pathetic opponent, Patroclus is sure. 

The stranger nods. “I am,” he says loudly, his voice carrying through the courtyard. He picks up a spear off the rack, and meets Patroclus in the middle. 

Patroclus only swallows, and readies his spear. 

The stranger lunges first, and Patroclus steps back to parry with his own weapon, knocking the other’s spear away. 

The stranger aims next for his left, but Patroclus dodges and spins away, swinging his spear in an arc towards the other boy. He parries it away, but gives Patroclus a smile while he does so. Patroclus breathes, wipes the hair away from his eyes, and steadies the grip on his spear. 

And so they dance around each other, each boy’s weapon advancing and retreating each other like the tide of the sea, pulling and pushing without cease. The sun beats down hotter as it reaches the zenith, and Patroclus can start to feel his muscles burn and ache with the extended exertion. He will not last much longer, he knows. 

He swings the wooden stalk of the spear at the boy's legs. The movement is too slow, he knows. It is an easily avoidable move, because the stranger will surely jump over, or will simply step back to avoid it. 

But it hits its mark, and the stranger falls to the ground. Patroclus has little time to react before the stranger tugs at his arm as he falls, sending them both falling to meet the dusty ground below. 

Patroclus falls on top of him, and the stranger hooks his ankle around the crook of his knees and flips them, so that he can pin him to the ground. It all happens so quickly, Patroclus cannot seem to process the change. 

He struggles against the stranger’s grip, kicking his legs to try and free himself, but he remains pinned in the dirt. In the distance, the other boys are yelling with excitement, eager to see how such an exciting match should turn out. 

“Punch me,” the stranger says to him in a low tone. Patroclus looks up to him with confusion. He has won by now, surely. Punching him would only be a further aggravation, and he would rather exit the courtyard this afternoon with as little injuries as possible. 

“It’s to first blood,” the stranger hisses. “Punch me in the mouth. Do it!” 

The stranger’s grip on Patroclus’ right wrist loosens considerably, and then Patroclus understands. The stranger nods. 

In a great show, Patroclus ‘rips’ his fist free, and hits the other boy in the mouth with all the strength he can muster. The stranger is pushed off him with the force of the blow, and the boys start to cheer with excitement. 

Patroclus slowly gets to his feet, and the stranger does the same, wiping at his mouth. He pulls it away, and holds up his hand for all in the courtyard to see. The crimson of his blood contrasts against his copper skin, shining brightly in the sunlight. 

The stranger turns to Patroclus, and offers a clean hand to him. “Well fought,” he says. Patroclus stares at it dumbly for a moment, his brows drawn in a near-glare. Why would he concede? Why let him win when he could take the glory of winning the fight? 

But then he hears it. The whispers of the boys. 

“ He beat him? How?” 

“I don’t know! I thought it was impossible! Did you see how Zee fights?” 

“Maybe we underestimated the Prince after all. Who knew he was holding back on us all this time?” 

He looks up from the extended hand, and sees the stranger smile, his teeth bloody from the blow. He has given Patroclus something far better than the glory of a win, he has given him respite. 

He takes the hand, and shakes it good-naturedly. This signals the end of the presentation. The doors open, and the boys start to file out of the courtyard, chattering about the excitement of the day. 

“I’ve never played,” Patroclus says to the stranger as they put their spears away on the rack. 

“What?” The stranger asks, giving him a look of confusion. 

“Trinity,” Patroclus elaborates. “The game you mentioned before. I’ve never played it.” 

At this, the stranger grins, and Patroclus cannot help but do the same. 

~ 

The sea is storming today, as it is like to do whenever Achilles’ mother visits him. She is born of the sea, and when she leaves it, it seems to want to pull her back so that she cannot escape it again. 

“And what of your therapon, my son?” his mother asks, and Achilles resists the urge to roll his eyes. It seemed as if everyone was asking him who he would choose, and while he expected it from his father and the other boys, he certainly did not expect his mother to care as much as they did. She did not make her disdain for mortals a secret, that was for certain. 

“Any of the foster boys in the palace would do.” 

“I know, mother.” 

His mother gives him a frown. “It is a good idea to have a companion, Achilles. Especially at such an age as yourself.” 

He will turn thirteen in two days. By all accounts, he should have chosen a therapon years ago. His hesitation was not for a lack of volunteers, the boys in the palace were practically tripping over themselves to gain his favour, but none of them met the mark. 

He dreamt of bronze skin and dark hair that never lay flat. He dreamt of an easy companionship, one that was not forced, like all the other interactions with the other boys. He dreamt of someone who did not see him as if he was a God, but just a boy no greater than himself. 

His mother always grimaced when he told her so, as she was the only one whom he’d told. Forget it, she’d said. It is simply a dream, and nothing more. Pick any of the boys, and do not wait for this delusion that will never come to be. 

So he did not tell her of the dream he had the night prior. He would only hear the same words she had told him so often, and was not in the mood for a lecture. 

“Automedon is decent,” he suggests, if only to get her to tire of the subject. 

“No,” she frowns. “He is only seven years old. Pick a boy of your age.” She did not ask him. She was a Goddess, she did not ask anything of any mortal. 

Achilles had only nodded, and told her he would. 

“You are to go to Mount Pelion and train with the centaur Chiron in the summer,” she tells him just before she leaves. 

And that is it, he supposes. From there, he will learn from the mind that taught all of the heroes before him. Heracles, Jason, Perseus. Would he become like them? They were all famous, and he was destined to be so also, but they never ended their heroism with any degree of satisfaction. 

Do I know of any hero that was happy? He thinks. 

(And frowns, because he is certain he has heard similar words spoken somewhere. They seem important, so why is it that he could not remember where they came from?) 

He does not think he wants to be a hero just yet. But he does not tell his mother so. As he said, he was in no mood for a lecture. 

She leaves, returning back to the sea, but not before she offers to take him with her. He refuses. He claims he wishes to spend his time in his father’s house before he leaves for Pelion in the summer. 

But he secretly hopes that in the short time he has, the boy from his dreams will come to him. 

~ 

Patroclus and Xenokrates dash between the hallways of the palace, still shrugging on their finest tunics and tugging their sandals tighter to their feet as they race towards the dining hall. 

Today is important. Today, his father is hosting the kings of surrounding kingdoms for the games. Patroclus remembers Opus had hosted these games long ago, back when he was no older than five years of age. He was too small and slow then, but he has grown. He is old enough to compete now, to prove himself not only to his people, but also his father. 

“Hurry, Patroclus!” Zee calls as he begins to fall behind, tugging at the laces of his sandals. “We’re going to be late!” 

Patroclus knots the laces, and races to catch up. 

The hall is packed when they entered. He could see his father at the head of the room, his mother sitting to his left, chatting to a soldier with a smile on her face, and the chair to his right was empty. 

Patroclus and Xenokrates elbowed their way through the crowds of royal families and prospective competitors just as the final horn blast sounded, signalling the beginning of the meeting. Patroclus stumbled towards the empty chair just as the room was beginning to quiet as the crowds waited for his father’s speech. 

He takes his seat, and his father sends him a quick look of warning before rising from his seat to address those in attendance. Xenokrates is near the front of the crowd, and Patroclus has to hold in a snicker as his friend struggles to catch his breath. 

“My lords, my family and I welcome you to Opus for the opening of this year's Achaean Games!” his father begins, and the crowd bursts into cheers, their excitement over the events infectious. Patroclus cannot help but grin, feeling the excitement for himself, giddy to compete this year. 

His father begins to name off the more important families that have agreed to sponsor the games this year. “We’d like to welcome the embassy from Sparta, from Aeolia, from Phthia…” 

This part was dull, Patroclus remembers. Dull, but necessary all the same. They could not have a king or so insulted by forgetting to mention his presence; such was the prideful nature of kings. Patroclus allowed his mind to wander, and it was then when his gaze caught Xenokrates in the crowd- 

Who was wildly gesticulating and exaggerating his father’s movements with his hands. It was true, his father did tend to speak with hands when he was presenting. Patroclus could not help the snicker that escaped him. 

His father turned back to look at him, stuttering his words when he heard. Patroclus could feel the heat rush to his face with embarrassment at the sharp glare his father sends him. But the moment passes, and his father continues on with the speech. 

He resolutely does not look at Xenokrates until his father has finishes speaking. 

“The games will start tomorrow morning, so until then, enjoy the bread and wine!” His father gives the crowd his best award-winning smile of hospitality, and the crowd cheers once again, some already drunk and grasping for the pitchers to fill their drinks. 

The crowds begin to disperse, eager to see all that Opus has to offer for the next coming weeks, and Xenokrates grabs his hand and tugs him away from the head table before his father has the chance to reprimand him in private. 

“Let’s go to the marketplace!” he says to him with a grin. “My father gave me my allowance early, so we can get anything we like.” 

Patroclus grins. He usually has things given to him because he is the prince, and most vendors do not wish to deny the king’s son anything, but it still feels nice to be treated as a human rather than royalty. 

“Bet I could beat you there!” he says, taking off into a sprint towards the courtyard. He is met with the sound of Xenokrates’ laughter receding behind him. 

The marketplace is already full of bustling tourists and visitors, pursuing the goods and wares of the vendors. Patroclus passes by carts of silk dyed in vibrant reds, greens and purples. He sees another cart decorated with beautiful jewelry, necklaces with jade pendants and sets of earrings to match, wrapped in bronze and silver wire. He can hear the sound of musicians in the center courtyard playing dancing music, and brushes past the crowds of people towards the marketplace center. 

The center courtyard is less packed than the labyrinthine alleys of the marketplace, but there are people dancing to the fast tunes the musicians are playing. Others sit on the perimeter, eating delicacies that they could only find in Opus. 

None of these things catch Patroclus’ eye, except for the group of boys in the center, all gathered around another boy, watching in wonder as he juggles what looks to be figs in a wide arc into the air. 

Patroclus stops, and cannot help but be entranced by the boy in the middle as much as any of the others. 

The boy is beautiful, he thinks. The boy’s eyes are fixed on the figs as he catches and throws them into the air with an ease and grace he has never seen before. His blond hair seems to shine golden in the sunshine, even though it is held back by a circlet of gold. Patroclus holds his breath, and cannot help but feel a sharp tug as he looks at him. It’s almost like he’s seen the boy before, but he cannot remember where or when. 

The boy’s eyes meet his then, and his pace falters only momentarily when their eyes meet. He regains control easily, and stares at Patroclus with the same wonder as Patroclus himself did to him. He smiles then, and says something to one of the boys standing beside him. 

Another fig is tossed to him, and then four figs are flying gracefully in the air. Patroclus only folds his arms over his chest. He’s seen mummers do similar tricks. Four figs juggled does not impress him. 

Another word, and a fifth is thrown in. Then a sixth, and soon after a seventh is added. Patroclus watches with increasing awe as the boy does not falter even once. He cannot keep his eyes off him, even if he tried. 

Patroclus’ eyes meet the boy’s once again, and offers him a smile. 

It is then that the boy’s concentration seems to falter, because he misses the next fig, and they all come crashing down onto him. He laughs, and manages to catch a few before they hit the other boys, most likely not wanting them to bruise. Patroclus cannot help but laugh with him. 

The boy looks at him, and grins. 

“Catch,” he says, and tosses a fig towards him. 

He barely catches it, grabbing at the flying fruit so he does not miss. He smiles back at the boy, and takes a bite of the fig, savouring in the grainy sweetness.

“Patroclus!” he hears Xenokrates call to him with an urgency, running into the marketplace center. Patroclus turns, startled by the alarm in his friend’s voice, seeing him practically sprint towards him. He’s about to ask him what could possibly be the problem, when Xenokrates takes one look at the blond boy with the figs, and grabs Patroclus’ arm with a bruising grip to tug him away from the courtyard. 

Patroclus tries to pull himself away, at least to demand an explanation, the Xenokrates’ grip was like steel, unyielding. He only manages to wrench his arm away when they are far away from the marketplace courtyard. 

“What is it?” Patroclus demands with a glare, still clutching the half-eaten fig in his fist. 

“Who was that boy?” He asks instead of answering the question. 

Patroclus gives him a confused look. “Who is he? What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Just tell me, Patroclus. Who was he?” Xenokrates asks him, his expression not just of concern, but of what looks to be outright fear. It is not a look Patroclus has ever seen him wear before. 

“I don’t know,” he says, his accusatory tone softening. “I didn’t get his name. Didn’t even talk to him, really.” 

Xenokrates breathes, and nods, seemingly relieved. 

“Why?” 

It takes his friend a moment to answer. “Do you ever get a bad feeling about a person, even if you haven’t met them yet?” 

Patroclus frowns. “He seemed nice enough to me.” 

Xenokrates only shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just… I don’t know. He seems like trouble. Let’s try to stay away from him, okay?” 

Patroclus’ frown only deepens at his friend’s insistence, but agrees nonetheless. The boy must’ve been here for the games, and would probably stay for the rest of the week. There was plenty of time to go behind his best friend’s back to meet him later, anyway.

Chapter Text

The games began in the morning, just after the first sunrise, once everyone had had their chance to eat and the competitors had the chance to prepare for the events of the day. 

There would be a race, and discus-throwing, sparring with hands, spears, and swords. Tests of strength, dexterity, and stamina. Not to mention the weighty prize of gold that was promised to each champion. 

But more so than just fun and games, the events were also a plea from Opus to the other kingdoms. Patroclus’ father did not often include him in matters of state - even though he should have at least been introduced to the council chambers by now - but Patroclus knew that the kingdom of Opus was not faring well. Their coffers were running short, their military was growing weaker, and their land was suffering from drought; nothing seemed to grow, and those few plants that did no longer yielded edible fruit. They were already borrowing off neighbouring kingdoms just to keep fed, but they needed more than just small loans if they were to survive in the long run. 

But the issue of food was not the only problem the kingdom was faced with. There was talk of the kingdom to the south of them, Beroia, planning a siege on their capital, with intent to claim Opus as their own. That is why all the kingdoms were invited to participate in the games this year, and as to why they were held in his kingdom for the second time within a decade. Opus needed allies, but would not resort to begging the others for support. 

But all of this seemed far away this morning. Today was for the games, and not for such dour thoughts. 

The discus competitions were first, preceded by the races, starting with the youngest boys and ending with the men. The afternoon would consist of other activities, but Patroclus did not care to remember them. He was no good at discus, or any event with the spear or sword (though he was improving, if Xenokrates was a fair enough judge), but it was the racing he was preparing for this year. He was too slow the last time the games were held, but now he could take off like death incarnate himself were at his heels if he so wished. He would no doubt win first in his age category, and hopefully his father would be proud. 

They just had to get through the other events first. 

He and Xenokrates were seated next to Patroclus’ father and a few other competitors from Opus when the bull was sacrificed, the blood that spilt from its neck signalling the start of the games. With a roar from the crowds that had gathered in the arena that morning, the competitors for the discus event gathered, and the audience waited with excited anticipation for the games to begin. 

“Bet you ten that the big one there makes it the farthest,” Xenokrates said to him, his eyes trained on the competitors below them. 

There were about a dozen competitors lined up, but this first round was for the boys of their age group. None of them would make it as far as the full-grown men would, but it is exciting to watch all the same. 

“Which one?” Patroclus frowns. “They are all big, Zee. The one from Sparta or Athens?” 

“Athens, I think. The one with his hair to his waist.” 

Patroclus only shoves him. “That’s Sparta, you twit. Athenians don’t wear their hair that long.” 

Xenokrates gives him an affronted look, but Patroclus knows he is only teasing. “Well, I do apologize for not sharing your extensive knowledge of Achaean kingdoms, o’ mighty Prince of Opus! ” The sarcastic edge to his voice near the end is a nice touch, Patroclus thinks. 

Patroclus only rolls his eyes and punches him in the arm, but not with much bite. 

“Anyway,” Xenokrates huffs, straightening his tunic. “He’s going to win. Just look at the size of him! There’s no way he could lose, not with that arm. Looks like he could crush my head with his biceps if he flexed hard enough.” 

Patroclus scans the other competitors, ready to agree with him when he notices that there are only eleven boys in the arena, rather than twelve. 

It is just then when the twelfth boy jogs up to the group, tying up his golden hair with a strip of leather, regarding the arena with a cool look. Patroclus sees him, and grins. 

“No,” he says, keeping his eyes trained on the boy. “That one, there.” He points at him so Xenokrates can see. “He’s going to win.” 

Xenokrates gives him a frown. “You’re serious? He’s so scrawny though! Almost like a girl, if you ask me.” 

Patroclus ignores his friend’s insult towards the boy. “Bet you fifty he wins.” 

Xenokrates eyes seem to bulge out of his head almost comically at the wager. “Fifty? Seriously?” he laughs. 

Patroclus only regards him with a hard look. “Yes. He’s going to win, I can feel it.” 

Xenokrates only shrugs. “So be it. It’s your money you’re throwing away.” 

The first competitor takes his place, and throws the disk. It doesn’t go very far, leaving the rest of the boys plenty of room to beat. 

Each competitor takes his turn, each throwing their disk just farther than the last. Finally, the last two competitors are left to throw: the boy from Sparta, and the golden boy Patroclus bet on. Both boys watch with excitement as the Spartan takes his mark. 

The disk flies through the air, sailing over the other boys’ markers, and lands leagues away from where the other boys threw. Xenokrates lets out a gleeful whoop. “Take that!” he cheers. “I think I’ll take my payment right now, Pat,” he grins, holding out his hand expectantly. Patroclus only pushes it away from him. 

“Just wait,” he says. 

The Spartan recedes from the starting line, and the golden boy takes his place, tossing the disk between his hands like it was a fig in the marketplace. He regards the Spartan boy’s disk from far away, and takes his stance. 

Patroclus watches in anticipation, leaning on the railing to get a better look. 

A breath, and then the disk is flying, sailing through the air miles above the ground. Patroclus grins as it passes the farthest disk. It lands with a thump far away from the Spartan boy’s disk - almost double the length the other made. Dust from the arena ground flies up at impact, and as soon as the dust settles, the crowd erupts into the roar of excited applause. 

Xenokrates gapes. “ What? ” he nearly yells in disbelief. Patroclus only turns to give him a smug grin. 

“That’s impossible! How did he do that?” 

He turns, and looks at Patroclus, who is still wearing the grin. “How in Hades’ name did you know he was going to win?” 

Patroclus couldn’t explain it, even if he tried. He saw the boy enter the arena, and just knew that he would amaze them all, without the shadow of a doubt in his mind. 

He didn’t say this to Xenokrates, however. Instead, he holds out his hand expectantly. “That’ll be fifty, if I’m correct.” - he was. 

Xenokrates just shakes his head in disbelief. “Fifty!” he exclaims. “I’m out fifty. Unbelievable. You’re lucky you’re my best friend.” 

Patroclus turns back to look at the boy, to see whether he would take his victory with infectious excitement, or would he accept it humbly? He looks, but the boy is gone. 

The rest of the discus event passes rather uneventfully. 

The races, however - the event that Patroclus has been waiting for - are next. He and Xenokrates are in the second age group, just after the youngest boys. He decides when the others start to line up that he should head down to the arena ground to prepare. They should probably stretch beforehand, he thinks. It would be the sensible thing to do, after all. 

He stands from his seat, and starts towards the stairs leading down, but is suddenly stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder pulling him back. 

“Sit down, boy,” his father says with a harsh tone. 

Patroclus should not talk back, that much he’s learned before. But how will he ever earn his father’s respect if he is not allowed the opportunity to show how much he is worth? 

“But the race, I was going to compete! I should head down now-” 

“You will not be competing.” 

Patroclus stops for a moment, letting those words process before reacting. He doesn’t end up thinking of a very good response. 

“What?” He says. 

“You will not be competing today. Or at all. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Why not?” Now this - this is talking back. Patroclus knows he shouldn’t, but he can feel the anger bubble up, and cannot help himself. 

His father only sighs, as if he is tired of the whole affair already. “I will not let my own son make a mockery of my kingdom by losing.” 

“But I won’t lose!” Patroclus protests. “I’m faster now, father. I am thirteen, not some toddler-” 

“Be quiet,” his father hisses, finally fixing him with a glare that could turn a gorgon to stone. “You will not compete. This is final.” 

Patroclus gives him a glare in return, anger and shame overflowing. “And what if I did anyway?” 

His father regards him for a cool moment, and Patrolcus wonders if he will hit him right there, in broad daylight, for all the kingdoms of Achaea to see. Instead, he bends down low to speak these next words to him directly. 

“Then I will make it so you cannot ever do so again. Do you understand?” 

A moment, and Patroclus nods. His father seems to accept it, and leans back in his seat as the young boys begin to run. Patroclus sits as still as marble in his seat next to him, and tries to ignore the ache in his throat and the stinging in his eyes. 

That is it, he supposes. He will never be of any worth to his father after all.  He should not have hoped for more than that; he was foolish to in the first place. 

The boys his age start to line up as the winner of the first group is awarded. Patroclus almost doesn't want to watch. He should be down there, competing for Opus with the other boys. 

The golden boy takes his place with the others, brushing his feet against the dirt. They are bare, Patroclus realizes. The other boys wear sandals so that they do not trip on the dirt, but this boy had discarded them somewhere else. 

The boys take their places, and Patroclus looks on with bated breath, watching the golden boy with anticipation. He’s already proven himself at the discus event, how would he fare during the race? 

He does not have to wait long for his answer. 

A sharp shrill whistle blows, and the boys start the race. The golden boy is quicker than them all by miles, it is like he was wearing the winged sandals of Hermes himself. He leaves dust in his wake as he runs. 

No, Patroclus thinks, as the boy turns the bend. Not the sandals of Hermes. This boy must be divine, he must be Hermes himself in disguise. Or, if not that, then a son of the God. Or the son of a God. Surely, no human could look like he does, could move the way he moves. 

He is grinning as he nears the finish line, and jumps to cross it - though he does not need to. The other boys are so far back there was no competition as to who could win. 

And it is that fact that makes Patroclus understand. Against him, there was no competition. There would never have been. 

“You could have let me race anyway,” Patroclus says, his eyes on his own feet. He would have come in second place, and he would have been happy enough with that. It was more than he’d gotten in the past, anyway. 

He hears his father sigh beside him, resigned. “I will tell you the truth, Patroclus. You are not worth the hassle that your loss would have cost me.” 

Patroclus can feel a lump in his throat start to form, and hot liquid well up in his eyes. He clenches the hem of his tunic, and tries his best not to scream. 

“I hate you,” he says. 

There is a moment of silence. “I hated my father too, Patroclus. You’re not that special.” 

Patroclus looks back to the arena, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. Crying would do no good; it made him look weak, and his father would probably beat him later on for it. He watches the next set of runners line up on the starting line, and shuts out the rest of the world around him. 

~ 

The dining hall afterwards is packed. Fish and bread are served, along with assortments of cooked vegetables. all seasoned with rosemary and thyme. It is a fitting feast after the first day of the games, both nourishing for the competitors and refreshing for everyone else. 

Patroclus picks at his food at an empty table, trying his best to eat without reopening his recently split lip. A cup of watered wine sits in front of him, but he does not drink. The wine makes his mouth sting. 

He feels someone plop down in front of him, down on the bench opposite him. He looks up, thinking it is Xenokrates who has finally come to join him, and gapes when he sees the golden boy from before. 

The boy smiles at him, and takes a sip of his own cup. “You were at the marketplace before.” 

Patroclus cannot think of an answer good enough for this boy that is surely divine. He nods slowly instead. 

“Patroclus, right?” 

Then, he frowns, and narrows his eyes at the golden boy. “How do you know my name?” he asks, but it sounds more like an accusation. 

“That’s what your friend called you. Before you left.” 

Patroclus cannot look at him for too long, he finds. It’s like staring too long at the sun. He takes another bite of his food, careful not to stretch his mouth too much. 

There is a moment of silence. Patroclus cannot seem to find his words, so he focuses on the food on his plate instead. He thinks that the boy will leave, and hopefully find some better company than himself. 

“I didn’t see you at the games today,” the boy tries again. His voice is beautiful, Patroclus thinks. He sounds like a singer. He bets he can sing as well as he can run. 

“I did not feel well enough, today,” he lies. If the other boy sees this, he does not call him out on it. 

“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow then,” the boy says. Patroclus only mumbles his agreement. 

The boy seems to laugh at that, and it causes Patroclus to glance up at him again, a glare ready on his face that immediately dissipates when he sees the innocent amusement on his face. “Are you always this talkative, Patroclus?” he teases. 

“Are you always this timid, stranger?” he teases in retaliation, making the boy grin. The boy holds out his hand across the table, an offering of friendship. 

“I’m-” 

“Hey, Pat!” 

Xenokrates plops down ungracefully right beside Patroclus, making the whole table shake with the impact of his fall. 

Both the boys’ attention is drawn to the commotion. Patroclus fixes him with a look of confusion. Xenokrates ignores him, and shifts his attention to the boy on the other side of the table. 

“You’re the Phthian king’s son, right?” 

The boy nods, almost bewildered at the whole interaction. 

“Your father was asking after you. Over there,” Xenokrates tells him, and points vaguely to a space behind him. 

The boy nods, and gets up from his seat on the bench, taking his cup with him. He offers Patroclus a smile. 

“See you tomorrow, Patroclus.” 

And with that, he disappears into the crowd of the dining hall. 

“I thought we said we were going to stay away from him,” Xenokrates hisses as soon as the boy is out of earshot. 

Patroclus only glares at him. “ You said you’d stay away from him. I never made any promises.” 

Xenokrates rolls his eyes and huffs his annoyance. “Please, Pat, can’t we just do as I say for once?” 

“For once?” Patroclus counters. “We always do what you want! Besides, I still don’t see why you want me to avoid him at all. Whatever bad feeling you got from him, I can assure you it’s not true to who he is.” 

Xenokrates gives him a look. “You talked to him for what? All of two minutes?” 

Patroclus takes another bite of his food, wanting nothing more than to just ignore the other boy and his stubborn insistence. “There’s only been two people other than my mother who have been kind to me, Zee. He’s the other one.” 

It seems that Xenokrates cannot find anything to say to that. 

The next day, Patroclus searches for the golden boy in the crowds, and watches for him during the competitions for that day. To his disappointment, the boy does not compete that day, and he cannot find him in the dining halls or other public places of the palace. When he asks a servant where the embassy from Phthia is staying, the servant says they have left. 

Patroclus tries not to be disappointed, but perhaps it was for the best. Xenokrates means well, and is right about more things than he is wrong. If he had a bad feeling about the golden boy, he was probably right. 

But Patroclus thinks of him all the same. Of his golden hair, of his trusting smile, of his bare feet on the dusty floor of the arena. He hopes that one day they’ll meet again. 

~ 

The trip to Pelion is a long one, Achilles thinks. Even longer when he finds he has little time to catch his breath at his own home before embarking on the trip after arriving back from Opus. 

His mother had deemed it time for him to go and train with Chiron before the games had ended. She had entered the palace in Opus during the night, and told Achilles and his father that he was to take him back to Phthia immediately so that he might go to Pelion as soon as they arrived. 

Achilles had never become angry with his mother. Frustrated, perhaps, but he had not voiced it before. He knew from a young age that one did not insult the Gods, and even though his mother was just a mere Nereid, he was still hesitant to speak against her, even when he knew she meant the best for him. 

But they had agreed on a week. Prior to leaving, they had agreed, all three of them together; he, his father, and his divine mother, that they would wait until games had ended, and only then would he start his ascent on the mountain. 

So when his mother came in the middle of the night, just after the first day had ended, not only had he been hurt and confused as to why she would not honour her word, he’d become angry. Never in his life had he been so close to yelling at his mother. 

“You promised!” He’d exclaimed. Not yelled - he had not yelled at her - but he’d come very close. 

“Something has changed, my son,” was her reply, her voice seeming more cold and detached than it usually was. “You are to start up Pelion in two days time. It will take about that long to get back to Phthia anyway, if we leave immediately.” 

“Can I not have this?” He’d asked her. “You promised me a week! Just one week where I could be a prince again, and not a hero yet!” 

She’d regarded him coolly. “Do you not wish to be a hero, Achilles?” 

Oh, he knew that tone. 

“I have sacrificed so much for you, my son. I have lain with your father, I have brought you into this world so that you may conquer it. I have given you purpose. I have given you glory already, and I will give you more still. Do you not want it?” 

This was a question they both knew the answer to. He’d balled his hands into fists at his side. “Yes, mother. I know what you’ve done for me, and I’m thankful for it, but-” 

“No ‘but’s.” Her tone now was sharp, like the edge of a sword. Like the cliffside rocks made jagged by the sea. “You will leave now, and start your studies on Pelion. Do you understand?” 

He’d stared resolutely at his feet, not willing to meet her eyes. “Yes, mother.” 

The day was hot, the sun beating down on his during his ascent making him sweat. He did not stop. The sooner he made it to wherever the centaur lived and taught, the sooner he could rest. 

He glanced over his shoulder, and down the hill he had passed, seeing nothing behind him except the gravel road he’d walked on. 

“Looking for something, Prince Achilles?” Chiron had asked, slowing his trot to glance at him. 

Not something, but some one , perhaps. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt as if someone was following them up the mountain. Either that, or someone was meant to. 

But no one was there. Each time he looked, no one was there. 

“No, sorry. Let’s continue.” 

If the centaur had noticed a change in Achilles’ demeanor, he did not mention it. 

Instead, they continued up the mountain.

Chapter Text

Patroclus is on a beach, staring out at the starlit sea, the sand rough and cool against his skin. But, no, that can’t be right. Opus has no beaches, and it most certainly does not border any seas. Where is he? 

“Patroclus,” a voice says beside him, just above a whisper. He has heard that voice before. Pa-tro-clus. 

He turns, and smiles to see the nameless golden boy by his side. He is sitting by his side, propped up by his elbows on the sand, his golden hair running free down his shoulders, reflecting the soft light of the moon. Patroclus itches to run his hand through it. 

But the boy sits up instead. “Are you well, love?” the boy asks, and for some reason, the endearment he uses does not strike Patroclus as odd. The boy is staring at him, but he does not feel scrutinized. No, this look is full of adoration and - dare he say - reverence. 

“I know you,” Patroclus says, because he knows he does. Not just from the marketplace, or the games, but from somewhere else. Somewhere older. 

The boy laughs, creasing at the eyes with amusement. “I’d certainly hope so,” he says, but does not elaborate. 

“But you have not answered my question,” he redirects, taking one of Patroclus’ hands in his own. “Are you well?” 

Patroclus only frowns. “Am I well? Why would I not be?” 

“Because,” the boy says, a playful grin. “You always did hate this part.” 

Patroclus’ frown of confusion turns to one of concern at his statement, and is about to ask about it when a bright light appears out of the corner of his eye, and heat surrounds them so intense Patroclus means to shy away, but the boy’s hold on his hand is steadfast; he cannot run away if he wanted to. 

He squints against the light, and sees a large ship in the sea in front of them. A burning ship, the heat of the flames scorching them from the beach. Then, from a distance, he can hear the screams of dying men. He can do nothing but stare at the grotesque image in horror, unable to pull away. 

“They will either yield to me, or burn. Don’t you see, Patroclus?” The boy says again, his voice becoming hard, a stark contrast compared to his playful tone of just moments before. 

“I wish he had let you all die,” he says, his voice cold and hard echoing through the air-

Patroclus starts awake, his breath coming in shuddering gasps as the terrible dream fades with the night. 

He sits up, the blankets falling to his waist as he tries to catch his breath, trying to will away the image of the burning ship. And of the golden boy’s glee at watching it turn to ash. 

This is not the first dream he’s had of him, but this was the first one where he had to watch men burn alive with the boy eagerly watching for his reaction. Most of his dreams of him were of glades on mountaintops (even though he’s never been much farther than Opus in years), and a couple of them had been by the sea in a foreign country. 

But none had been of this. 

He stands, and makes his way to the basin to splash cool water from his face, trying to will away the images left over from what is surely his imagination. 

He can hear Xenokrates snoring in the corner of his room. He almost forgot he now shared his room with the other boy, and does not wish to wake him. It was jarring to hear another’s even breath during the night when one was so used to stifling silence. 

Patroclus had chosen Xenokrates to be his therapon just days before. It made sense that he was his pick from the other boys; none of them had any desire to be Patroclus’ closest companion for any other reason than the title and status it would bring. Xenokrates had been his friend for years now, so there was only one decision Patroclus could have sensibly made. 

It did not feel altogether right. Someone else was meant to fit the role, Patroclus knew, but he was short of contenders as it was. 

No, Xenokrates would be a good companion. Better than good - he would be exceptional. Patroclus couldn’t complain. 

(But he wasn’t really complaining, just making an observation. Like one would about the weather, or the quality of dinner on an evening. Just an observation about something that was odd.) 

He trudges back to his bed, pulls the blanket around his shoulders, and tries his very best to sleep. 

~ 

Patroclus hates spears, he decides. He’s tried to learn them for what seemed like years, and while he was no longer hopeless with one, he still wasn’t good with them either. 

Although, it didn’t help that he was running on only two hours of sleep and a date for breakfast, and his training partner was probably gifted by the Gods in combat. 

“Guard up!” Xenokrates calls to him, and thrusts the spear low to his left. Patroclus yelps and jumps out of the way, rather than blocking the blow with his own weapon. Xenokrates only laughs in the most infuriating way a person can. 

“Close. Try to use your spear next time, Pat,” he grins, his tone teasing as he gives Patroclus a moment to adjust his grip for what seemed like the hundredth time since they began. That was the thing with spears. Patroclus never could seem to be able to balance their weight correctly. Not in a way that was efficient, in any case. 

Patroclus huffs and gets into stance, eyes locked on his opponent. 

Xenokrates observes him for a moment, calculating, then lunges quickly to his right, swinging his spear in a wide arc towards Patroclus’ middle. He responds in kind this time, raising his own weapon to knock it away before aiming at Xenokrates. But the other boy reacts quicker than he can move, and dodges with a grin. 

Quicker than Patroclus can react to, the butt of Xenokrates’ hits him directly in the gut, and the air is punched out of his lungs. He falls with the force of the hit onto the dusty training grounds below. He makes no move to get to his feet, still trying to catch his stolen breath on the ground. 

A shadow crosses over his face, obscuring his face from the harsh sunlight, and he squints against it to see Xenokrates standing over him, leaning casually with his spear in the dirt. 

“What’s up with you today? You’re not usually this…”

“ Terrible?” Patroclus wheezes out. 

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it. But now that you did, yeah.” He reaches a hand down to help Patroclus off the ground. 

“Terrible,” he says as he yanks Patroclus to his feet. “Awful. Horrid. Dreadful. Dare I say abhorrent-” 

“Okay, okay,” Patroclus sends him a glare as he retrieves his fallen spear. “I get the idea, thanks.” 

“What I mean is that you’re usually better than this,” Xenokrates says, putting his spear back on the training rack. “You seem kind of… unfocused today. Are you alright?” 

“Yes,” Patroclus lies as he too returns his spear, eager to be rid of the damn thing. 

Xenokrates gives him a look, knowing that his statement is full of shit. This is another reason why Patroclus chose him as therapon. He knew how to read him well, and could always tell when something was wrong. A valuable quality in a friend. 

“I just didn’t sleep well, okay? That’s it,” Patroclus concedes, heading towards the doors. 

Xenokrates frowns, but can tell when Patroclus wants the subject dropped. 

“ Anyway, ” he says, drawing out the ‘y’ playfully. “Have you heard who’s going to be chosen for the guard this week?” 

Ah, yes. The youth guard. Only the most skilled fighters of the boys that trained in the palace were chosen to be part of the guard, and only those that showed real promise were offered a position as part of the army of Opus when they came of age. 

Patroclus and Xenokrates had just turned fourteen. The boys they trained with as young children were all hoping to be chosen as part of the guard, and had fought hard over the past few months to prove their worth to their instructors. 

Xenokrates would surely be chosen. He was the best of them all; it would be an insult if he wasn’t. Patroclus, himself, could not find it in him to care. Even though he had improved greatly over the past years, he was still slow, and his attacks were still weak. He would never be chosen this season, he was certain. 

“No. Why would I?” 

“Because your father is the one who approves the applicants! You must’ve heard something.” 

Patroclus gives him a look. “And exactly what makes you think my father shares anything with me?” 

Xenokrates chooses to ignore this statement, instead groaning dramatically at his friend’s non-answer. “C’mon, Pat. You have to know at least when the results will be posted!” 

Patroclus sighs. “Tomorrow. After lessons finish.” 

Xenokrates grins, and lets out an excited whoop. 

“I think,” Patroclus says, thinking back. “Or… wait. No. That was yesterday. So they should be posted alrea-”

Patroclus is cut off when Xenokrates grabs his wrist and breaks out into a spring across the courtyard, dragging him along behind him. 

They skid to a stop in front of the wall outside the training grounds where several other boys they trained with were already crowding around; no doubt to see if their name had made the list. With his grip still firm on Patroclus’ wrist, Xenokrates shoves them through the crowd of boys to the front. 

Xenokrates grins when he sees his name written plainly at the top of the list. Of course he would make the guard; the instructors would be foolish if his name were not there. Patroclus was pushed back as the other boys clamoured their way to the front. 

“I’m sure you made it,” Xenokrates said as they waited for the space to clear. “You’re the prince, skill or not. You must’ve made it.” 

Patroclus knew his father would not care whether or not he did make it onto the guard. But he was willing to bet that he didn’t, in any case. He was capable, but not extraordinary. 

“You didn’t see the rest of the list?” 

Xenokrates had the decency to look at least a little sheepish. “I got excited. Didn’t see the rest of it, sorry.” 

Patroclus nods, and watches the other boys buzz around the posted paper like bees, waiting for them to grow tired of the excitement. He makes his way to the wall when the crowd started to thin out. 

He scans the paper, starting near the top with his therapon’s name boldly written in rich, black ink. His name is not below his, nor it is the third on the list. His eyes trail down the paper, not recognizing any of the names as his own. 

He pulls away from the paper. He is not surprised. Perhaps a little disappointed, but not surprised. 

Xenokrates is quick to offer encouragement. “We’ll train extra hard, now. I’ll make sure you make it there soon. By next season, for sure.” His tone is so hopeful and optimistic that Patroclus almost wants to believe him. 

He only shakes his head, and walks away from both the list and his friend, and into the winding hallways of the palace. 

~ 

He is rolling the dice in his hand when he hears it: the high-pitched scream of a young girl. He doesn’t even have time to think before he is on his feet, running towards the sound. 

He turns around the corner to see one of the slave girls of his father’s house wailing, fragments of a broken pot and shreds of splintered wood at her feet. She is crying, fat and ugly tears streaming down her red face. She is clutching at her arm, holding it close to her chest, staining her tunic a dark crimson as it absorbs her blood from the wound. 

He approaches her carefully, as if she were a skittish animal that could bolt at any moment. 

“It’s okay,” he says gently, to get her attention. She looks up through tear-stained eyes, and gasps when she sees him. She starts backing away, her heel brushing against the shattered clay around her. 

“It’s okay,” he repeats, slowly going to her. “Here, let me see,” he says (though he doesn’t know why, because he knows nothing of healing wounds or mending bones), holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. She eyes him apprehensively, but compiles all the same, shuffling towards him while keeping her bleeding arm close to her chest. 

She broke it somehow, he concludes, because he can see the white of her bone protruding ever-so-slightly around the blood. He doesn’t think as he breaks off a small piece of the wood on the ground, and rips the hem of his tunic long enough to serve as a wrap. 

“I’ll have to set it,” he tells her in a calm voice. “It’s going to hurt, but it’ll feel better in the long run, okay?” 

The girl nods through her tears, and holds out her broken arm to him. 

He doesn’t know how he sets it, but his hands move against his knowledge. The girl bites her lip and stifles a groan of pain as he clicks her bone back into place. He pressed the wood to her arm, and wraps the cloth around, keeping it in place. He takes the rest of the ripped hem and fashions it into a make-shift sling that he ties around her shoulder. 

“Thank you, my lord,” the girl sniffles, using her free hand to wipe at her face. 

But surely his treatment is not enough to save the girl from infection from her wound, nor it is enough to see she doesn’t bleed out. Patroclus is no physician; she needs a real healer. 

He guides her to the old man on the southern side of the palace, where he is trying to make himself busy by pressing and drying herbs. He takes the distraction of the girl’s injury with enthusiasm. 

Patroclus stays with her, sitting on a wooden stool by her side. 

“Who set the bone?” the physician asks, closely observing the girl’s arm, taking care not to jostle it too much. 

“My lord did,” the girl says, nodding towards Patroclus. 

The physician gawks at him. “You did this?” 

Patroclus nods. “Yes.” 

The physician looks back at the girl's arm with disbelief. “Well, I don’t need to correct it. I didn’t know you had knowledge of healing, my prince.” 

Patroclus almost feels as if he is in a daze; has been since he first heard the girl’s scream. “I… I don’t. Not really,” he says. 

The physician only shakes his head, and reaches for a jar filled with a paste Patroclus has never seen before. “Well, you can help out in any case. Put this on her cut.” 

Patroclus does, and then helps clean the blood from the wound, and helps bandage it with clean linen, all under the watchful eye of the physician. The girl leaves not long after, a bag of herbs for pain tucked under her belt. 

Patroclus is about to follow her out when the physician’s gruff voice calls out after him, and he pauses in the doorway. 

“You did well today, helping that girl,” he says. Patroclus does not know how to respond, so he says nothing. 

“Would you like to learn medicine?” 

It takes him a moment to answer. “I… I don’t know. Perhaps.” 

The physician huffs, and tightens the lid to the jar of herbs in his hands. “Well, if perhaps becomes a yes , you can find me here after midday meals.” 

Patroclus knows a dismissal when he hears one. He nods, and leaves. 

~ 

Patroclus is sitting with his mother as the sun starts to set this evening. He rarely has time to just sit with her anymore; and she hardly is ever lucid enough to carry on a conversation. Her mind has gotten worse over the years. But tonight seems to be one of her better nights. Together, they sit and let the golden sun warm their skin. Patroclus rolls the dice between his fingers, and his mother is braiding pieces of grass together, humming and smiling to her own tune. 

“If only there were flowers here,” she sighs, staring at the long and twisted strands of grass in her hands. “Aquilegia would be nice. The red petals would match nicely with your hair, my son. And maybe some coriander leaves as well, yes. I would fashion you a crown of them fit for a king.” 

Patroclus only gives her a smile. “Maybe I’ll try to find some for you later, Mama,” he says. Her only reply is a gentle smile his way. 

“Do you ever think, Patroclus,” she says, leaving the strands of grass on her lap in favour of watching the sunset. “That you were made for more than this?” 

Patroclus gives her a frown of confusion. “What do you mean? More than what?” 

His mother does not meet his gaze, and is instead frowning at the dying sunlight. “You are not meant to be here.” 

Patroclus eyes her carefully, not sure whether or not she is speaking true or if her delusion is the one telling him this. Nevertheless, he can almost feel a shiver run down his spine at the ominous nature of her words. 

“Where else am I supposed to be, if not here?” He cannot help but let his curiosity roam free. 

“I’m not sure,” she says slowly, like she was carefully choosing her words. “Not here. Not in Opus, that much is certain. In the mountains, perhaps. Or in the caves of rose-quartz. And… a faraway island. But that comes later.” 

Patroclus knows then that he is not speaking to his mother. Today had been one of her better days, but the day was quickly coming to an end. 

“So far away, oh, Patroclus,” she sniffles, and he turns to see her crying, still staring at the oranges and reds of the sunset. “Don’t climb the walls, my son, please. You cannot go. You cannot go so far away. You won’t come back.” 

Patroclus takes her hand, trying to offer some measure of comfort, to ease her crying. He always hated seeing his mother cry. 

“It’s okay, Mama. I’m right here,” he tells her, trying his best to keep his voice calm. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here, with you, in Opus. Remember?” 

“Opus,” she repeats in a daze, tears still running down her face. 

“Yes, in Opus. Just outside the palace. That’s where we came from, do you remember?” 

She nods, and wipes at her face with her free hand. “Yes, yes. Opus. I remember.” 

The sun has just dipped below the horizon, the reds and oranges giving way to the blues and indigos of night. 

“We should head back now, so we’re not left in the dark,” he tells her, and she nods her agreement. 

They are almost back to the palace entrance when she speaks again. “You will have to go away some time, Patroclus. Soon, I think. I can feel it. But please, promise me one thing. Will you do that for me?” 

Patroclus nods to her. 

“Promise me, my son, that you will not go near the city. Not without him. Please promise me. My heart could not take it if you did not.” 

“I… without who, Mama? Which city should I not go to?” 

But a look has passed over her face, rendering it to a blank stare she often wore. 

“City? I don’t know,” she says, her words slurring slightly. “I only know Opus. That is all.” 

Patroclus takes her arm, and starts to lead her back to her bedchambers so she does not get lost in lieu of a response. 

“Have a good night, Patroclus, dear,” she says with a smile when they come to her doorway. 

He gives her a smile. “Goodnight, Mama. Rest well.” 

He walks back to his own chambers, and cannot seem to drive his mother’s words from his head.

Chapter Text

It’s the first day of the harvest season when Beroian spies from the antagonistic southern kingdom are found within the palace walls. They were captured and interrogated, only to reveal with glee that men at arms were less than a week away from the city. Their numbers were revealed, and Opus could only pale in comparison. 

Xenokrates recounted all the events of that particular guard meeting to Patroclus eagerly that night. He’d been waiting for a moment like this for most of his life: a chance to prove himself in battle, and not just sparring against the other boys. Patroclus did not share his friend’s enthusiasm, as he was much less keen to battle against grown soldiers. 

“But wait, wait, I haven’t even told you the best part yet!” Xenokrates exclaimed at seeing Patroclus’ look of despair. 

“The way you’ve been going on, I’m not sure I want to know,” Patroclus remarks, taking a bite of the bread on his plate. 

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s good news! Beroia relies on the other villages around the capital, and our intelligence says that most of their army is camped in the villages. A few sneak attacks to those villages, and they’ll have no choice but to retreat.” 

Patroclus frowns. “You said before that most of them were a week away.” 

Xenokrates shrugs and pops a pomegranate seed in his mouth as he nods. “Yeah, but they were lying about their numbers a week away. That army won’t survive if we take out the others in the villages. We’ll outnumber them two to one that way.” 

Patroclus nodded. It made sense they would count their numbers as a total to dissuade them from attacking. “So who do we send to the villages then?” 

Xenokrates took a sip from his drink and grinned. Patroclus had his answer. 

“Well, you said you wanted a chance to fight. I suppose you’ll be leading,” he says as he breaks off another piece of his bread. 

“Of course. I’m the best, there’s no way they wouldn’t let me lead. It’s not a real fight, though. What the war generals want is more sneaky than anything, but it still counts, technically. That’s what they say anyway.” 

“But that’s not what you want.” 

Xenokrates sighs, draping himself dramatically over the chaise of their room. “I think it’s cowardly, killing men in their tents. I would much rather meet them head-on. But since we’re still ‘children’...” he says with his hands making air quotes, “... they’d rather leave it to more experienced soldiers.

“Which is stupid,” he protests, taking a sip of his drink to serve as a dramatic pause. “Because I’m already better than all of them. They should have me out there, but oh well I suppose.” 

Patroclus has to stifle a laugh, both to save his friend’s already bruised ego and the food still in his mouth. “Don’t take it personally. You’re only fourteen, Zee. But you’re still leading the guard, so you have that.” 

Xenokrates gives a long, drawn out sigh of exasperation. “I guess you’re right.” 

There’s a moment of silence that turns tense, and Patroclus can sense Xenokrates’ apparent apprehension. It doesn’t take an oracle consultation to know what is wrong. 

“You’re nervous,” Patroclus observes.

Xenokrates rubs at his neck, looking at his feet. “Is it weird that I am?” 

Patroclus offers him a smile. “No. Fighting at all comes with some degree of danger, no matter the odds. You’ll be fine - more than fine, you’ll be amazing out there - but it’s still okay to be nervous.” 

Xenokrates nods, but doesn’t lift his eyes from the ground. “I just don’t want to leave my father here. I’m all he’s got, you know? I don’t think anyone would look after him if I wasn’t there to.” 

Patroclus knows the feeling well. He remembers what his mother had said to him many nights before. My heart could not take it, she’d said. 

“You won’t have to worry about it. It’s like you said: you’re the best of them all. There’s no way you could lose, especially if all you’re doing is sneaking around at night.” 

Xenokrates’ meets his eyes to give him a smile. “Thanks,” he says. 

Patroclus swallows another bit of his bread, and reaches for the dice in his pocket. “Do you want to play trinity?” 

Xenokrates grins and sets his plate down on the table next to them. “Of course I do.” 

~ 

“Patroclus!” 

He starts awake, being shaken forcibly out of his sleep, Xenokrates’ hands bruising into his shoulders above him. 

Patroclus shoves him off as forcibly as he can in his sleep-muddled sleep, and sees that his friend is dressed head-to-toe in armour, his helmet and breastplate covered in splattered blood. It takes him a moment for his sleepy mind to register exactly what he’s seeing, and then he’s on his feet in alarm. 

“What happened? Are you okay?” Patroclus asks, staring at the dark red splatter littering the golden armour he wore in shock. 

“There was an attack,” Xenokrates tells him breathlessly. “Every man’s been called to arms. We need to go now.” 

Patroclus only gapes at him. This must be some sort of nightmare, surely, because he would never be asked to fight. 

“Your father has summoned you in the hall with the other men,” Xenokrates tells him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him out of their room. 

“You don’t want me to fight, though!” Patroclus tries to protest as he’s dragged through the dark halls of the palace. 

“I don’t think it matters at this point,” Xenokrates tells him. “What we need is men, whether or not they can fight. The appearance of soldiers is better than none at all.” 

The main hall is brightly lit and filled to the brim of men strapping on pieces of armour and grabbing whatever weapon they could find, both sword and spear. 

Xenokrates picks up a smaller breastplate, this one made of bronze, and tosses it to Patroclus before rifling through a chest full of helmets of a great variety. 

Patroclus makes no move to strap the piece of metal to his chest. “You can’t be serious. I’m not even good at sparring against you, I can’t fight in a real battle! Not yet, at least!” 

Xenokrates turns to him and tosses him a helmet of gold, completely mismatching the breastplate. “Give me this,” he says, and takes the piece of armour from Patroclus, starting to strap it onto his chest. 

“You’ll be okay, don’t worry. You’re just there for appearance’s sake. The more men it looks like we have, the larger the chance they’ll want to wait ‘till morning to attack, and not in the middle of the night. This way, we can buy Opus some time.

“Besides,” he says, buckling the last strap into place and handing Patroclus a blade to strap to his waist. “I’ll be with you the whole time. You won’t get hurt.” 

“You can’t know that.” 

“I can,” Xenokrates argues back, giving him a hard look. “I’m your therapon, your closest companion. It’s kind of in the job description to make sure you don’t die.” 

In the distance, a loud horn blows into the night air just outside the palace. “That’s our cue,” Xenokrates says, grabbing his own spear from the rack by his side. He gives Patroclus a grin that he knows is meant to be reassuring. “Let’s go kill some Beroians.” 

The sun is just starting to rise as Patroclus and Xenokrates exit the palace, painting the sky in shades of cobalt, the horizon barely tinged with red and orange. In the wood expanse beyond his city’s border are spots of firelight: camps of their enemies. 

Patroclus stops at the city’s borders when he sees them, finding spots of firelight all across the wood, and dismays. How could they have overlooked so many enemies before? How had they been allowed to congregate so quickly without any notice? 

(How was he possibly supposed to survive the night with odds so stacked against him?)

He can hear the roar of battle in the distance. An attack had happened, Xenokrates had said. That was no doubt where most of the soldiers were, warding off the encampments that had decided to attack early. Would that be him, in the heat of battle? He felt sick to even think of himself there, between deadly soldiers of the southern kingdom when he could hardly balance the weight of a spear. 

“Patroclus!” He hears Xenokrates call to him, and turns to see his friend gesturing forward. “Come on, we have to go quickly.” 

Xenokrates leads him and a few other boys of the guard (some more experienced than others) to the outer reaches of the woods. They are shrouded both by darkness and the density of the small forest in front of them, but Patroclus is still wary of their position. There were so few of them, any seasoned soldier would see them as easy targets, he was certain. 

“There’s a small encampment about two hundred yards away,” Xenokrates tells them in a hushed tone. “There may be two men, or ten, but it doesn’t matter. They’ll join the attack as soon as the sun’s up, so we have to act now.” 

“Like we were supposed to do with the villages?” One boy asks. 

Xenokrates nods, his face as serious as a man’s. “Except we’ll be closer to home, that’s all. If all goes well, we’ll be done here before breakfast.

He looks up to Patroclus, and gives him a look he’s never seen the other boy wear before; reassuring, but stern all the same. You will be fine, it says. But do not hesitate, or you will be killed instead. 

Patroclus gives him a nod, and with that, Xenokrates is to his feet, navigating around the thickets with ease, the other boys following him closely behind. 

Suddenly, Xenokrates signals a stop, and all the boys halt. Patroclus can see him unsheath his blade, and knows then that they are close to the encampment. He swallows, and tries his best to not let his hands shake as he reaches for the blade strapped to his waist. 

There are five men that they can see around the campfire, each of them tending to their blades and searching past the wood towards the distant sounds of battle. One or two are already dressing in their armour, and another is taking a swig from his wineskin. Two more already have blades in hand, facing the other direction, no doubt keeping watch. 

Patroclus wants to speak out and say that it’s too risky to attack this encampment. The men are prepared and eager for battle, and they are just boys still. 

But in front of them, Xenokrates raises three fingers, and Patroclus holds his breath as he counts down silently. When his hand makes a fist, Xenokrates raises his blade and charges with a roar towards the camp, and the other boys follow. Patroclus grips the hilt of his blade, and charges after them. 

The men in front of them start at the sound of their charge, one of them swinging his blade while the other readies his grip on his long ashwood spear. The other men are to their feet in an instant, snarling and unsheathing their own weapons as the boys descend on their camp. 

Xenokrates meets the first soldier with the loud crash of steel against steel. The boy beside him thrusts his spear at the other sentry, and Patroclus is too far away to see whether or not he hit his mark. 

The other men are on them in a flurry, and suddenly the boy in front of him goes taut. Patroclus glances down, and sees the spearhead of the soldier’s spear protruding out of the boy’s back. A second later, and it is ripped free with a sickening squelch, dark blood pouring from the wound. He only stays upright for a moment more, then crumples to the ground in a heap, his blood staining the dirt beneath and puddling around where he fell. 

Patroclus watches in horror, his hand tightly gripping the hilt of his blade. He cannot look away. 

But then the soldier who killed the boy is standing right in front of him, and Patroclus hardly has enough time to raise his own weapon before the man’s spear comes swinging toward him. He blocks, pushed backwards into the dark woods with the force of the swing. 

The soldier swings again, and this time Patroclus can anticipate it, remembering the defensive techniques that he and Xenokrates had rehearsed. Each time the man strikes at him, the easier it is for him to find his footing. 

They recede into the darkness of the forest, away from the encampment, and Patroclus has to squint against the dimming firelight in order to see his opponent. 

The soldier feints right, but Patroclus does not see. When he goes to block, he is instead met with a sharp jab to his side, and stumbles back against a rock wall with a groan. His free hand immediately goes to his side, and he hisses as his hand pulls back sticky with blood. The soldier in front of him grins, blood splatter staining his face, and raises his spear above his head. 

Patroclus barely has enough time to duck out of the way before the soldier’s spear comes crashing down, sending sparks flying against the rock when the spear-head collides with it. Patroclus backs away, and starts towards higher ground. 

The man chases him up towards the hill, laughing with amusement, thrusting his spear at Patroclus as they climb over the moss covered rocks. Patroclus returns each blow with his own blade, grimacing with pain when he feels the wound in his side weep with each stretch. 

They reach the top of the rock wall, and Patroclus pales to see that the ground seems to be at least twenty feet below them. The soldier swings at him again, and Patroclus is pushed further towards the edge, sending pebbles clattering down onto the hard soil below. 

The soldier grins, knowing that he has won, and raises his spear one last time to deal the final blow. 

But Patroclus watches the man’s feet, and when he steps forward to bring down the spear-head, he thrusts his blade upwards, and into the man’s chest. 

The man falters, his spear slipping from his grip and clattering down onto the soil below. Patroclus stares up at him with wide, unbelieving eyes, not believing that it was he who put the blade in the man’s chest. It seems like the soldier cannot believe it either. 

Blood bubbles at the man’s mouth and spills down his chin as his body slackens. Patroclus slides his blade out of his chest, and ducks out of the way as the man falls over the rockside, hitting the ground with a loud and sickening thud. 

Patroclus is gasping for stolen breath as he looks over the side, and sees the man sprawled on the ground in a growing puddle of blood. He feels bile start to rise in his throat, but not because of the dark liquid staining the ground, but by the fact that the man seemed to hit his head on the way down, his skull having split open. 

An image comes to him, of the grassy plains of Opus and a boy lying face down in a pool of blood. His head was cracked open too. 

The sword Patroclus holds slips from his grip. He falls to his knees, shaking, and empties his stomach onto the moss beneath him. 

Xenokrates finds him there later, curled up in a fatal position on the top of the rock wall, surrounded by blood and bile. The fight must be over, he thinks distantly. He would not have come otherwise. 

“Patroclus?” He hears his name asked carefully, as if he were a wild thing that could run off at any moment. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” 

But he can’t seem to find his voice to answer. He stays there, his forehead pressed to the cool rock beneath him, and tries to catch his breath. 

He is pulled upwards by his arm so that he’s standing. The sun has risen now, he sees. Oranges and reds that he would have thought wondrous paints the sky. But all he can see is the boy’s body in a sea of golden grass, and he feels as if he might be sick again. 

“It’s okay,” he hears Xenokrates tell him, but his voice seems far and distant. “It’s over. We can go back home, okay?” 

Home. Patroclus nods dumbly. And then they are climbing down the rock wall, back onto the soil. 

They pass by the dead soldier, and Patroclus fixes his eyes on the trees ahead of him instead of looking at the other man, terrified that he would see the boy with his head cracked open instead. 

~ 

Patroclus stands outside the doors to the training courtyard, looking inwards at the walls of practice weapons and the groups of boys who were sparring amiably on the dusty ground. 

One of them whipped the spear at the other’s legs, and the boy went toppling down to the ground with a thud. 

Patroclus sees red, but he knows it isn’t really there. He squeezes his eyes shut, hands balling into fists as he tries to drive the image of the boy with his head caved in away from his mind. The same boy he saw when the soldier fell down the rock wall. 

It was a bit ridiculous, he kept telling himself. He’d never seen that boy before. The boy was young, no more than ten years old, so he knew that there was no way he would have even had the experience before. So why was it he saw the dead boy nearly everywhere he went? 

“Patroclus?” A hand on his shoulder jolted him. He jumps to see Xenokrates at his side, a worried expression on his face. “Are you okay?” 

It had been a week since the attack. He should be over this by now. It was just one dead soldier, and it would most likely not be the last he would see in his lifetime. 

“I’m fine,” he wills himself to say, but his voice sounds as strained as he felt. 

“We don’t have to train today,” Xenokrates tells him, and his voice is so sympathetic that Patroclus wants to hit him. He does not need his sympathy. 

“I said I’m fine, okay?” He snaps, shrugging his shoulder free. The look of concern does not leave his friend’s face. Patroclus only scowls at him, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Patroclus knows exactly what he’s referring to, but he only intensifies his glare.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says, because it’s true. What would he tell him in any case? Everytime I close my eyes, I don’t see the soldier I killed, but instead the boy I killed. 

(But he’s never killed any boy. Why would he think that? He’s never killed another boy, he’s sure of it. He would have known it if he did. He could never have forgotten.) 

Xenokrates regards him for a moment, but then nods. “Alright. But if there is something you want to talk about, you know you can tell me, okay?” 

Patroclus nods after a moment, and his friend moves towards the doors of the courtyard. 

And then he is alone, watching his friend leave and head towards the walls of practice weapons. Patroclus turns so that he does not have to see him pick one up, and heads into the hallways of the palace with no set destination in mind. 

He passes by an open door, and hears a deep baritone voice humming a tune. He backs up and peeks through the doorway to see the old physician humming to himself as he grinds herbs into paste. His sinewy hands work slow and methodical, turning the stone pestle in a steady rhythm.

Patroclus cannot look at much of anything in Opus - a proud, militant kingdom - without seeing the boy’s cracked head against gold grass and dry soil. But he stands mesmerized by the healer and his work in the depths of his father’s palace. 

He enters the doorway, and the physician stops his humming to look up at his visitor. 

“My prince," he greets. "How does your side fare? Healing well?”

He’d almost forgotten about the shallow scratch he’d obtained during the battle. “Yes, it is… but I...” he hesitates, but decides anything would be better than walking onto the training grounds again. “I would like to learn medicine, if you are still willing to teach.” 

The physician gives him a nod, and pulls out a small wooden stool next to his own, and pats it in an invitation. 

Patroclus enters the room, and closes the door behind him.

Chapter Text

There were saws on the physician’s table instead of herbs and natural medicines when Patroclus entered the room after midday meals. Patroclus hesitates at the doorway, looking at the sharp instruments on the table warily. 

“Well don’t just stand there,” the physician - Demophon, his name was - urges, glancing between several large pieces of aged paper. 

Patroclus enters, and closes the door behind him. “What are all these for?” he asks, still eyeing the instruments carefully. 

Demophon lifts his head from the papers to look at him. “You’re not squeamish, are you?” 

Patroclus hesitates, then shakes his head no. Over the past year, he’s learned plenty that may have made the other boys gag, but he has become strangely accustomed to the more nauseating aspects of healing.

Demophon nods, then rolls his papers and puts them into a small bag, swinging it around his shoulder. “Good. There’s a cadaver of a farmer that’s recently been registered, so today will mark the beginning of learning my favourite part of medicine: surgery.” 

Patroclus is unfamiliar with the word, but knows he will soon learn it’s meaning. Judging from Demophon’s excitement to begin these types of lessons, he is sure it is bound to be useful. 

The old physician leads them out of the palace towards the outskirts of the main city, and into a small hut near a wheat field. 

“I’d recommend breathing through your mouth when you enter,” Demophon advises just outside the hut, and Patroclus starts to think that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all. But Demophon is opening the door and ushering him inside before he can protest. 

Patroclus is almost immediately bombarded with the smell of dead, and gags before he remembers to breathe through his mouth, as his teacher instructed. 

There is a table in the center of the room, with a sheet concealing what is no doubt the cadaver of the dead farmer. Patroclus walks towards it, and lifts the sheet from the man’s face, revealing sickly white skin, and is thankful his eyes are closed. 

“He has no other family to speak of,” Demophon says as he discards his bag on the edge of the room. “So there would be no objections to using his corpse to learn today before he is burned.” 

“We won’t be doing any cutting though, right?” Patroclus asks. Surely no one would like to attend a funeral where the one they’re supposed to be honouring is missing a limb or two because of an overzealous medical student. 

“No family,” Demophon restates. “It’ll just be a few men to build and light the pyre. They won’t care, in any case.” 

Patroclus looks back to the dead man, frowning. It seemed wrong to be debasing a corpse in the first place, but it was sad to know that this man had no one left to care for him after he was dead. 

“A bit sad, yes,” Demophon says, as if he senses Patroclus hesitation. “But very convenient for us, no?” 

It’s a bit of a morbid thought, Patroclus thinks, but he cannot deny that the physician speaks truth. 

“Now,” his teacher begins, yanking off the sheet to fully expose the dead man. “Can you tell me how he died?” 

It is now that Patroclus loses his hesitation, becoming detached from the situation as Demophon had instructed; it would do no good to any patient if he became emotional about it. He studies the corpse, searching for symptoms he had learned about that could have led to the farmer’s unfortunate end. 

“Here,” Patroclus says after a moment, pointing at a long scar on the man’s calf. “The scar looks recent, meaning it had healed within the past two weeks or so.” 

He turns to Demophon for confirmation, but the physician only gestures back to the corpse. “Continue.” 

Patroclus takes a breath, then presses two fingers onto the scar, finding that whatever had injured him had wounded a vein. It had swollen before his death, he could feel it. 

“The skin healed, but the vein took longer. That means that…” he hesitated, wracking his brain to remember the diagnosis. 

“His blood,” Demophon supplies. 

“Right! Yes, his blood had clotted around the vein, but also cut off the path for the blood to travel,  while trying to heal the vein.”

Patroclus smiles at his victory, knowing that he’d found the cause. “The blood couldn’t travel to the brain, and that caused the man’s death.” 

Demophon gives Patroclus a grin, and he knows then that his assessment was correct. “Exactly. It was the injury which started the problem, which isn’t uncommon given the man’s occupation. Do you think there could have been a way to save him, given this information?” 

Patroclus thinks, but comes up blank. “I suppose this is where we learn about ‘surgery’.” 

“You would be correct,” Demophon says. “Surgery is, by definition, the practice of cutting into the body to heal, and oftimes involves removing either alien objects from the body - like an arrow head - or removing things that could be threatening to the patient’s life. 

“In this case,” Demophon explains, pointing back to the man’s scar. “If we knew the true extent of the man’s injury, we could have removed the offending part of his leg to save his life.” 

This causes Patroclus to frown with thought. “But it was the injury that caused the clot in the first place. Wouldn’t adding more injury produce the same result?” 

Demophon shakes his head. “Not many outcomes in surgery are certain. In this case, the man’s vein could not heal fast enough along with his external injury. Under medical care, amputation - that is, limb removal - could have saved the man if he was monitored closely.” 

Patroclus considers, and nods his agreement. 

“And those tools back in the palace are used for amputation?” 

Demophon nods. “Do not touch them without my supervision, they are incredibly sharp; you could probably slice your hand through by accident.” 

Patroclus nods. He supposes that there was a reason why those instruments were kept so sharp. It would be difficult to cut through bone and muscle with a dull blade. 

“If you take anything away from our lesson today, Patroclus, remember this. An exceptional surgeon is not one who can have the wound heal the cleanest, nor is he the one who makes the most precise cut. An exceptional surgeon depends on speed. Our draughts for pain only do so much, so you must work quickly.” 

The tone of Demophon’s voice darkens with the gravity of the subject, and Patroclus knows then that what he says is the most important thing he will learn that day. Or perhaps even in all the lessons he has with him. 

The rest of the lesson is of learning the best places to cut if surgery is required, marking them on the cadaver with a kohl-based paint. 

“Are we not using him to practice?” Patroclus asks as Demophon starts to pack up his supplies, the sun starting to dip below the horizon. 

The physician looks at the corpse with a frown, considering. “I have changed my mind,” is his reply. 

They head back to the palace as the sunset paints their path in a golden light, both walking side by side in a comfortable silence. 

“I meant to offer my congratulations to your father, by the way. Pass them on to him, will you.” 

Patroclus only gives him a frown of confusion. “For what?” Nothing had happened recently that warranted any official congratulations, especially towards his father. 

“For the new princess, of course,” Demophon answers as if it should have been obvious, leaving Patroclus more confused than before. 

“Although, you won’t know for sure if it’s a girl until the birth, of course. But the Queen seems certain, and the women are more often right about these sorts of things, you know.” 

“You must be mistaken,” Patroclus says. “My mother is not with child.” She could not be with child, he wants to say. She would have told him the moment she was sure, he knows she would have. 

“I confirmed it last week, when she came to see me. She’s most definitely with child.” 

Patroclus’ frown on confusion only deepens when he hears this. He focuses his eyes on the terrain ahead of him, a million thoughts flying through his head. 

His father and his mother did not even sleep in the same room anymore. Not since he was a child, at the very least. And his father had slave girls frequenting his bed chambers more often than his mother ever had. He could not see him extending an invitation, and even if he did, he does not think his mother would even accept. 

The child could not be his father’s. 

“I apologize. I thought you knew.” 

“I did not.” 

Demophon heads to his workplace to clean up for the day when they reach the palace, and Patroclus does not stop to think before heading to the western wing to talk to his mother. 

~ 

The Queen’s chambers are empty when Patroclus enters, which was unusual, given that his mother’s condition required her to be under supervision from servants almost constantly to keep her safe. 

“The King had requested to speak with her, my lord,” a servant girl tells him when he asks, which sends a sharp pang of dread down his spine. 

“Do you know the reason?” 

The servant shook her head no, but her eyes said differently. She was just as scared as he felt. 

He barely mumbled out a word of thanks before he left his mother’s chambers, starting into a run down the labyrinthine hallways of the palace. 

His anxiety only spiked as he neared his father’s chambers on the other side of the palace, quickly passing by closed doors. He thought this before: his father never requested to see his mother, not since her wits had slowly begun to drift away as the years passed. But a new variable had entered the equation. His mother was with child, and it wasn’t her husband’s. 

That thought alone sent dread to pool deep in his chest. It had been a week since it was confirmed, and Demophon thought he knew. Who else knew about his mother’s condition? Could his father know? Was that why he requested to see his mother?

A loud crash from down the hall - the sound of a clay pot shattering - followed by a shrill shriek of a woman answered his question for him. 

Patroclus stops breathing when he hears it, and breaks into a sprint. 

He reaches the closed door just as an inhuman sound echoed from the room, so loud it echoed down the hallway. Patroclus does not think as he throws the door open and runs in. 

He is met by the image of his father pinning his mother to the ground, a bloody shard of pottery in his hand, his mother shrieking and clutching her stomach while she flails, trying to throw his massive frame from her. 

“I’ll cut the damn thing from you myself if I must! I will not have my wife birth another man’s bastard!” His father hisses at her, first gripping the bloody shard above the Queen while she screams and sobs, blood seeping from her stomach. 

This is where Patroclus would hesitate. He knows he cannot take on his father; he is the size of an ant compared to the bull-like figure of the other man. His father could kill him if he wanted, and then he would kill his mother. 

This is where Patroclus would run away. The words echo through his head, a simple son from a simple wife. But Patroclus is not as simple as those words claim. 

Patroclus does not think any longer as he runs and jumps at his father’s side, tackling him to the ground in a fit of both blind terror and burning rage. They tumble to the side, but his father is a large man, and Patroclus is still lithe, more skin and bones than muscle at fat. He is easily thrown to the ground, and a knee is pressed into his gut to keep him down. 

There is blood pooling at his father’s nose, and Patroclus is glad to see the bastard bleed. This does nothing to quell the terror he feels when his father only meets him with a blood-soaked grin. 

“I must say, I am surprised, Patroclus,” he says, his voice hoarse from words yelled before. “I did not think you had the nerve to even come here, let alone challenge me. It’s a shame you are more like your whore of a mother.” 

He can hear his mother sob from the other side of the room, and knows she is still on the floor. His father’s knee pressed harder into his gut, and Patroclus groans as he feels the air in his lungs constricting as he bruises. 

Patroclus reaches at the knee pressed into his middle, and sharply twists, his father yelling in pain when he hears the bone pop out of place. He is released, and gasps for breath before swinging at his father’s face, hitting him square in the jaw while the other man is disoriented.

His father falls, and Patroclus wastes no time in pinning him to the ground, punching relentlessly at him. 

“Stay away from her!” He screams at him, not giving the man beneath him a chance to recover, his fists becoming speckled with blood as they bash relentlessly anywhere he can hit. With a final blow to the face, his father goes limp with unconsciousness, and it is only when Patroclus knows he will not rise for some time does he shakily get to his feet, breathing in harsh gasps of air. 

His mother is lying in a pool of blood, her hands clenched tightly around her bleeding stomach as she sobs. “My baby,” she cries. “My baby, my baby …” 

“It’s okay, Mama,” Patroclus says as he picks her up as gently as he can, trying his best not to jostle her more than strictly necessary. “You’ll be okay, you’ll both be okay.” 

She is so light as he carries her down the hallways, droplets of blood making a trail behind them as he rushes to the southern part of the palace. He cannot help her here, by himself,  he needs Demophon. 

The physician stares in shock at the bleeding woman Patroclus carries into his working area before throwing all the contents of his table to the floor, instructing Patroclus to place her there. 

“What happened?” He asks, his voice tight as he rushes around the surrounding cupboards, gathering supplies. 

Patroclus grips his mother’s hand, sticky with blood, as if he could transfer his own life force so that she might survive. “My father found out that the child was not his,” he says, his voice strained. He sees no reason to lie to the physician; he knows he would not judge. 

“Zeus almighty,” Demophon curses as he pries away the Queen’s hands from her stomach to observe the wounds. 

“Patroclus, my son, where is Patroclus?” She cries, tears streaming down her face. 

“I’m right here, Mama,” Patroclus says, gripping her hand with both of his own. “You’re going to be okay, Mama. We’re going to help you.” 

The Queen only wails, weakly protesting against Demophon’s healing hands. “My babies!” She cries. “My poor babies, Patroclus, don’t go!” 

Patroclus feels hot liquid race down his face, brushing hair away from his mother’s face. “I won’t leave you, Mama. I won’t. I swear it.” 

He looks up to Demophon only to see his expression is grave. The physician’s bloodstained hands hover over the Queen, and the look he gives Patroclus fills him with utter despair. 

“I’m so sorry, my prince,” Demophon says, his voice small. 

Patroclus shakes his head, his breathing becoming ragged as his mother lies on the table, gasping for air. There must be something he can do, he thinks, because his mother cannot leave like this. Not his sweet mother, who cleaned his face and soothed his hurt, who’d play with him when he was sad, who held him when he cried. 

Her breathing becomes laboured, and her eyes fly shut with a groan, and Patroclus begins to panic. “You have to stay awake, Mama. Please, don’t leave me!” He cries, uncaring for the other man in the room. 

She takes another breath, and her hand goes limp in his own. Her chest does not rise to take in another breath. 

“No,” he says, watching her head loll to the side, her blood staining the wooden table she lies on. “No, Mama, no… ” 

He collapses, pressing her cooling hand to his forehead as his shoulders shake with silent sobs. 

He doesn’t hear Demophon come to his side, and barely feels the hand on his shoulder that is meant to be a comfort. All he can feel is the wet on his face, and his mother’s limp fingers squeezed tightly in his own hands. He cannot hear words of condolences, but rather his own heart-wrenching sobs, and the deafening absence of his mother’s steady breath. 

~ 

Heavy clouds cover the sun’s face the day the kingdom of Opus gathers in the palace square for the Queen’s funeral. 

The pyre is built, and on it lays Patroclus’ sweet mother, dressed in her finest clothing, surrounded by her favourite possessions. Her wounds had been stitched and bandaged, so that they might not show during her funeral, and her hands were placed clasped on her stomach, where her baby might have been. 

(The child was still too small to warrant it’s own funeral - they couldn’t even tell what gender it would have been; it was not yet formed. Patroclus mourned the baby as his sister, as that is what his mother would have wanted.) 

The king stands near the funeral pyre, in front of the solemn crowds that had gathered to mourn their Queen, out of respect if for no other reason. He did not seem upset at his wife’s passing, but he did not seem relieved about it either. He might still be in pain from that fateful night; his knee had been badly dislocated, and his nose was still crooked from where it had broken. 

Patroclus stands mournful next to him. He cannot keep his eyes from the body of his dead mother on the pyre. He keeps imagining that all this is just some horrid nightmare; that his mother will walk up from where she lays and give him a smile, saying that this whole situation was just a huge misunderstanding, and that everything would be okay. 

But she stays still, as the dead do. 

He is jolted out of his thoughts when his father nudges at his side, and he sees all those on the platform looking at him expectantly. 

In his hand he holds two gold coins, worth five drachma in total; the toll his mother would need when she meets the Boatman in the underworld. Of course, his father would not want to do the task himself, instead passing it on to his son. Good, he thinks. He does not deserve to go anywhere near her ever again. 

He walks to the pyre, and feels a knot form in his throat as he places the coins over his mother’s eyes. He knows this is the final push, giving them to her. The gold coins contrasting against the waxy quality of his mother’s once-youthful skin is what settles it. 

Something jostles in the pocket of his princely garb as he moves. He reaches in, and pulls out the dice he often kept with him. 

A memory comes to him. 

His mother  is grinning through tears at him - he is young, maybe nine years old. She kisses the dice he had shown her, and holds Patroclus’ hands in her own as she gives him back the dice. “There,” she says. “I have blessed them for you. Keep them with you, and I will always be there. I promise.” 

Patroclus feels tears well up in his eyes, making the image of his mother swirl in front of them. He lifts the worn dice to his mouth, and presses a kiss to them. He takes one of his mother’s hands, and tucks the dice safely between them. 

“Keep them with you, Mama. And no matter where you go, I’ll be with you.” 

She is trying to calm the panic within him with her watery smiles. “I promise,” she says. 

“I promise,” he chokes. 

He is pulled back, but he doesn’t register it. The pyre is lit, and his mother is enveloped in hot flames. They only leave when the ashes are collected, and a servant escorts him back into the palace. 

He and his father sit at opposite ends of the table in the dining hall, hours later, once the citizens are barred from the palace, leaving them with their own grief. The room is filled with a stifling silence between them, their sounds of their cutlery clattering against their plates echoing in the empty hall. 

“I did not think you would have fought, when you came in,” his father says, breaking the silence, and Patroclus swears he sees red when he hears his father’s voice. 

But he cannot give his father the satisfaction of a response. Not on the day for his mother. He stays silent, his eyes fixed on his food. 

A pause. 

“I suppose I have not given you enough credit. You do not give things up so easily now as you once did,” he says. 

But that is not right. He cannot say that, he didn’t say it before. He has no right to say it now. Not when his mother’s ashes lie in an urn on the mantle. 

(But where had he heard it before? Who had said it? The words echoed through his head in a rich timbre, not the hoarse gravel of his father’s voice. Why could he not remember who had said those words to him before?) 

But that does not matter. 

“Be quiet,” Patroclus hisses at him, not afraid of the repercussions he might receive for talking back for once. Fuck talking back. He gives his father a venomous glare from across the table. 

“You murdered my mother. Nothing you say with have any meaning to me, you fucking bastard.” 

His father just stares back at him in shock, eyes wide. He did not expect such words from his timid son. 

Patroclus expects volume as a response. Yelling, screaming, chairs thrown against the room for his insolence, fists against his face for his words. 

But none of that comes. The man across the table gives him a minute nod, and returns back to his plate, taking a sip of the wine in his goblet. 

Patroclus almost wishes for the violence, because that would mean everything would be normal, nothing changed. This only confirms that nothing will ever be the same again. Not here, in his father’s house. 

He suddenly cannot stomach the food on his plate. His chair screeches against the stone floor as he stands, and the sound of his feet echo through the empty hall as he leaves the room, and into the hallways, leaving the widowed king alone.

Chapter Text

The air is warm as the sun travels closer to the horizon this night, a rarity for the steadily cooling weather that the late harvest season brought. Opus rarely got truly cold, but the winds tended to chill in the night during these months, so Patroclus and Xenokrates had made the most of the unusual weather by spending the day outside. 

Now, Patroclus watched lazily out the wide palace windows as the kingdom was painted in gold, wishing for the sea. 

“You look different,” Xenokrates says, and though his tone is quieter than it usually is, his voice seems louder when it breaks the easy silence. 

Patroclus tears his eyes from the golden grasses to give his friend an inquisitive look. “I do?” 

“Yeah,” Xenokrates says eloquently, simply staring at him with an unreadable expression instead of elaborating. 

It made sense, Patroclus supposes. He’d just turned sixteen; it was expected he would look different from last year. Still, he wants to know exactly what had coaxed that particular statement from his friend now, instead of before. 

“How?” He asks, curiosity getting the better of him. 

Xenokrates does not answer right away, instead studying him from his spot near the window. “Your face is different, a bit,” he says decisively. “It’s a little wider. And this,” he rubs at the lower half of his face, where Patroclus knows hair has started to grow on both of them. 

He’d need to learn how to shave it off. His father had a beard, always had since can remember. 

“And you’re taller, too,” Xenokrates says, and Patroclus has to laugh a little at the absurdity of that statement. He’d grown perhaps a few inches in the past year, whereas his friend seemed to have grown a foot overnight. 

“Don’t laugh,” Xenokrates glares at him, tucking his legs underneath him, as if he could hide how gangly they’d become. “It’s not funny.” 

It was a little funny. He was constantly tripping over himself, unused to his own height. It made training simultaneously a nightmare and a great entertainment. 

“You just need to get used to it,” Patroclus says, a grin on his face as his laughter starts to fade. “If it’s any consolation, you’ve changed in more than just your height, also.” 

Xenokrates’ glare fades, replaced by his own curiosity. “I have?” 

Patroclus takes a moment to study him, then nods. “Yes. You’re larger here,” he points to his shoulders, his collarbone. “They’ll grow more, I think. To even out the rest of you.” 

Xenokrates’ face has flushed when he looks back up to him, but it must have been the way the light was hitting him. Or perhaps the heat. As he said, it was unusually hot for the late harvest months. 

But he would not stop looking at Patroclus. He frowns. 

“Is the difference really that bad?” 

Xenokrates shakes his head quickly, too quickly. “No. It’s not a bad different. Just different, you know?” 

Patroclus doesn’t, not really. But he hums his agreement instead, and they lapse into a silence once again. 

“You’d not be displeased, I think.” Xenokrates mumbles quieter than before. “With the way you look now.” 

Patroclus does not have the time to respond, because suddenly he sees a large embassy of riders cresting a hill coming towards the palace. Patroclus might have mistaken them for a group of traders, but the sheer number of them ruled that option out entirely. A hundred men were not needed to barter goods in the marketplace. 

That, and they carried flags with them. Yellow whorled with black. A design Patroclus was having a hard time remembering the owner of. A western country, he’s sure, but not certain on which one it represented. 

“What are they here for?” Xenokrates asks when he sees them, neck craning to see them out his side of the window. 

“I’m not sure,” Patroclus replies, and gets to his feet. “We’d better go find out.” 

The main hall was suspiciously packed to the brim when Patroclus and Xenokrates enter, and Patroclus knows immediately that something has happened. The room has not been this full since the surprise attack from Beroia.

But the room is not in a frenzy as it was then. Men were packed shoulder to shoulder, whispering and muttering to each other. In the front sat his fatherwith another man talking to him in hushed tones. Patroclus does not recognize him, and thinks distantly that he must be from the unknown embassy riding towards the kingdom. 

“Any guesses?” Xenokrates asks him, also observing the room. 

“Bad news, I think,” Patroclus replies. 

“Do you think it’s a war? Maybe with the Beroians?” 

Xenokrates’ guess makes sense. If this news involved most of the men, it was not a private affair. 

But then why would a foreign embassy travel for the announcement of another kingdom’s conflict? 

The room begins to quiet when his father stands, the eyes of all the men in the room drawn to him with excitement. What kind of news had these strangers brought? 

A feeling in Patroclus' chest started to nag at him, almost as if it was trying to pull him away. Xenokrates seems to be right with his assumption about war, but it was certainly not an isolated affair; between two countries at odds. Somehow he knew that this war would shake all of Achaea to it’s core.  

“There has been word from Mycenae,” his father started, his voice carrying across the room, effectively silencing the rest of the electrified chatter. “From the King Agamemnon of Mycenae and Menelaus from Sparta. The sons of Atreus, as I’m sure you know.” 

It’s about the girl, Patroclus thinks unprompted, and feels dread start to curl in his stomach. 

“There has been a crime. Menelaus’ wife, Helen of Sparta, has been taken from him.” 

A pit drops in Patroclus’ stomach at the queen’s name, and the men around them begin to whisper excitedly. Helen! They exclaim. The most beautiful woman in the world. A reason to fight over. A namesake to create carnage to. 

“Who do you think did it?” He hears Xenokrates whisper to him, just as excited as the rest. 

“Troy,” Patroclus murmurs without a thought, the name coming into his head unbidden. 

“Troy?” Xenokrates asks, but the king begins to speak again, and does not give Patroclus a chance to answer. 

“Menelaus is blaming one of the sons of Priam - Paris - saying that he stole the queen from her bedchambers in the night, and took her back with them to Troy.” 

A murmur of outrage ripples through the room. Patroclus can distantly hear the whispers. 

“Just like those Easterners to resort to petty thievery.” 

“If I had had the guts to kidnap the Queen, I’d challenge Menelaus outright. Not that I would - mind you, but the principle still stands.” 

“You’re right. How cowardly do you have to be to steal a woman from her bed?” 

The king clears his throat loudly to gain back the attention of the room. "Mycanae and Sparta call on the kingdoms of Achaea to lay siege on Troy and fight for the Queen’s return. And for their gold, once the city falls. Those who join will be greatly awarded.”  

Patroclus can almost feel the men grin at the thought of such wealth. The offer is certainly enticing. 

The king offers the men a grin, and Patroclus knows that with these next words, no man would dare be left behind. “What do you say, men of Opus? Shall we join with Mycanae and return rich?” 

A loud series of yays! erupts from the crowd of men. Patroclus does not think any of them would turn down such an opportunity. 

“Then it is settled. We shall take down the names of those who wish to join, and I shall lead you to Troy for conquest!” 

The men start to yell with excitement, shouting their agreement. Patroclus begins to think this is the end, but then one of the men from the forgein embassy steps up on the dais, and raises a hand to calm the men to listen. 

“That is not all, men of Opus,” the man says, his voice as smooth as silk, calculated. 

“Helen had many suitors when she chose to marry Menelaus. At the time, all the suitors who were not chosen had sworn an oath to protect her, no matter who she would marry. Agamemnon and Menelaus call upon those now to fulfill their oath.” 

Patroclus remembers now. A dark room filled with men bigger than himself. A brazier. The crimson blood from the goat’s neck, and the feeling it left on his skin as he swore, his small voice barely carrying through the room. He was only nine years old. 

The dread in his stomach is replaced with a feeling not unlike fear. 

The man holds up a piece of parchment, and starts to read off names that Patroclus swore he had forgotten. 

Antenor.

Eurypylus.

Machaon. 

Agamemnon. He remembers now, a tall bear-like man with a thick black beard. 

Odysseus. The one with the pink scar down his leg.

Ajax. The largest man in the room, nearly double the size of all the rest, and at least four times the size Patroclus was then. 

Philoctetes. With the bow that the men did not sneer down at, but gazed upon in awe. 

Menoitiades. 

Patroclus feels someone tug on his sleeve, and sees Xenokrates staring at him with a look akin to shock. “You were there?” he practically hisses. 

Patroclus only nods his head dumbly, still caught in the haze that his forgotten oath has brought him. “I thought it was a dream. I was so young.” 

The man continues, but Patroclus does not hear any of the other names called. 

The king dismisses the men once the man has finished his announcement, and the room slowly begins to empty. Patroclus’ feet seemed glued to the ground; he cannot move even if he tried. 

“Patroclus,” a sharp voice calls, and when Patroclus finally looks up, he sees that the room has emptied, leaving only his father, the man from the embassy, Xenokrates, and himself. Somehow, the room seems more stifling with only four people in the room. At least with the crowds, Patroclus had a place to hide. 

“Must I go?” He asks, looking past his father’s instantly disapproving look, and instead towards the other man. “I was only a child,” He tries to reason. “Surely I cannot be expected to be held to the word of a nine-year-old.” 

The man’s mouth is set in a grim line, and Patroclus likes to think he saw something similar to sympathy in his eyes. “If it was not made in blood, then perhaps it could be disregarded.” 

Patroclus swears he can feel his heart sink at the man’s words, but he is far from done. 

“But this war is different,” he says, a grave tone overtaking his voice. “Something has happened on Olympus. A slight, I believe, though I do not know. I have a feeling the Gods will become involved, and since the oath was made over a daughter of Zeus…” 

Is that the reason for the dread curling around him? The innate knowledge that this war is not just about a pretty girl, or even the greed of men, but a conflict among the Gods? 

“Is this certain?” He hears Xenokrates ask from over his shoulder. 

The man nods. “It is what my patron Goddess has told me.” 

Patron Goddess. Who was this man? 

“Agamemnon means to unite Achaea in Aulis in six months time. It would be wise to send your delegation there promptly, so we may all descend on Troy as a nation united.” These are words said to his father. Of course they would be, no one would expect Patroclus to be leading the men, obligated to attend or otherwise. 

“What if I refuse to go?” The question bubbles out of him like steam from a pot of boiling water. The man looks back to him, but takes a moment to answer, as if weighing his words. 

“Then you will be prosecuted as a traitor to Achaea. An oathbreaker. I would not recommend it.” 

Executed, is what the man says. Patroclus gives him a nod of understanding. That is all the answer he needs. 

He can no longer stand to be in the room, not when his death has almost certainly been proclaimed, and the air is closing in on him when the man’s words leave his mouth. He turns on his heel to leave. 

“Before you go,” The man says, and Patroclus stops before he can make it to the exit. 

“There is still one whom we’ve yet to find, hoping to recruit. Prince Achilles of Phthia.” 

Phthia. He’d heard of the smaller kingdom before, but did not recognize the prince’s name. He does not give the man an answer, simply listening with his back turned. 

“He’s conveniently gone missing since the summons. Some of the kings and I have had a difficult time tracking him down. Your help would be greatly appreciated.” 

He owes this man nothing, but does not say as much. Instead, he resumes towards the exit, and hopes that that is answer enough. 

~ 

Patroclus does not sleep that night. He lets the wax burn low, not wanting to be left alone in the dark where there is nothing to distract him from the knowledge that his death has been all but proclaimed. 

He does not wish to go to war. He is not violent by nature, not like the rest of the men of Opus are. He barely survived the skirmish with the Beroians all those years ago. How could he be expected to make it through a war prompted by the Gods unscathed?

If he stayed, he would be executed as an oath breaker; even running was out of the question, where would he go? The kings were eager to track down all those who were required to go. They would find him easily, he is sure. 

But if he went, he would surely die. Was there really a choice? 

His thoughts are abruptly interrupted by the sound of his door creaking open, and he turns to see Xenokrates walk in. They don’t say anything, and Patroclus cannot find any words to properly express what his thoughts are screaming, so he watches as his friend takes a seat by the window, across from him. 

The scene is not dissimilar from where they were that same morning. Only now, one of them was practically dead already. 

“You’re thinking too much again,” Xenokrates says after a moment, his voice sounding like a clap of thunder against the tense silence of before. 

“I’m not thinking enough,” Patroclus counters, his words slow. 

There’s a moment of pause, and Patroclus can see Xenokrates searching for his next words. 

“It’s about the war, isn’t it.” 

Patroclus sends the boy across from him a sharp glare. “Of course it’s about the war,” he nearly spits. “You heard what the man said. There’s no way I’m going to return from where I’m forced to go.” 

“You’ll be fine.” 

“I’m going to die, Xenokrates.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I do!” He nearly shouts, his voice climbing at his friend’s insistence. Why did he have to argue this point with him? What about this situation did he not understand? 

“I can’t fight! Not like you do, Zee. This isn’t like sparring or wrestling, this is war! Life and death!” 

“We fought beside each other before,” Xenokrates counters, frowning. 

“Not like this,” Patroclus shoots back. “Beroia was nothing compared to this. You’ve not seen war, Zee. You don’t know what it even is.” 

Xenokrates sends him a glare. “And you do?” 

Yes, Patroclus wants to say. I’ve seen it all. Spears driven through men’s hearts, the cries of the abused and enslaved women at night. The bent neck of the warrior ten times my size, the spear through my chest-

(No. That’s not right. Because that never happened. It was only his imagination, or a dream, or something because he was still here and still alive.) 

“I… I don’t know,” he says instead, his voice quickly losing any edge it had obtained. “I’m sorry. I just... “ 

Xenokrates’ expression softens. “I know.” 

“It’s been a long day.” 

“Yeah.” 

There’s a moment where the silence returns, jarring after such volume, the only sound in the room are both of their breathing, heavy after each had yelled in turn. 

“If you don’t want to go, I won’t blame you,” Patroclus says after a moment. “The man said it was a war among the Gods as well. I understand if you don’t want to get involved in all that.” 

But Xenokrates only shakes his head. “I couldn’t. I was made for the fighting, Patroclus. I think it’s what I’m meant to do. To fight,” he says. 

Then, after a moment of thought. “To protect. That’s what I’m made for.” 

Patroclus can only give him a pitiful smile of gratitude. 

“Besides,” Xenokrates adds, a matching smile spreading quickly over his face. “I’m your therapon . Kind of in the contract to make sure you don’t die. If you have to go, you know I will go with you.” 

Patroclus wipes at his eyes, starting to feel moisture gather there. How he must have been blessed with such a wonderful companion. 

“Would you like to play trinity?” Xenokrates asks after a moment. 

Patroclus almost laughs. “I don’t have any dice.” 

“That’s okay. I can find some around here somewhere.” 

~ 

The sea is nothing like what Patroclus imagined. 

He stands on the edge of the port, ignoring the bustling activity of the sailors, and simply stares out into the endless blue expanse, thinking that he had never seen anything as beautifully untamed as the Aegean Sea. 

“Patroclus!” A voice calls to him, jolting him out of his thoughts. He turns away from the sea towards the man he’d been travelling with - someone from the foreign delegation that came from the west. The man motions towards a boat, the one they had paid passage to board. 

Patroclus spares the sea one last glance from the dock, then adjusts the strap on his bag before moving to join the man. 

They’d been searching for the missing Prince Achilles for three months now. He was not in Phthia, nor was he on Mount Pelion where he had trained up until he was summoned down. He was not hidden in any neighbouring kingdoms, nor had they heard of any report of a boy entering any major cities or temples around Achaea. It was as if the boy had disappeared out of thin air. 

Which was very inconvenient for Patroclus, since he was one of the men tasked to find him. 

Skyros was a last-ditch attempt. Patroclus thought it would be a waste of time trying to find him there; the King of Skyros only had one legitimate daughter, and fostered girls from young ages until they were ready for marriage in his halls. It would have been incredibly out of place if a noble prince had arrived on their shores, and would have been noted immediately. The prince simply could not be there, but Patroclus was not one to protest. 

He boards the boat, somewhat resigned as the rest of the crew members load the rest of their cargo onto the ship, and watches the crowds of people bustle about the busy port. The man he had been searching with had already left to secure his own lodging, and it was then that Patroclus begins to feel the acute longing for companionship. 

Xenokrates had stayed back in Opus to help gather and prepare the youth guard for war. He was appointed an official general by the king (a title he was immensely proud of wearing), and so he was expected to plan, and start to strategize, and prepare rations and accommodations for his division. There was no way he could have left for an aimless search now. 

“I don’t like you going alone,” he’d said, which irked Patroclus a bit. 

“I’m not going alone. The man from Ithaca is going with me. And we’ll meet up with some others later on.” 

“That’s not what I mean. You’re going to be in some trouble.” 

Patroclus had frowned. “We’re going to war. There’ll be trouble no matter where I go.” 

Xenokrates had huffed his frustration as Patroclus was busy packing his things. “I just don’t like it.” 

“I don’t like it either,” Patroclus had retorted. “But I’d be more use there than here, as I’m sure you’d agree.” 

Xenokrates had, begrudgingly. 

“Just promise you’ll be careful.” 

“Of course.” 

The ship's anchors are raised, and the ropes tying it to the dock are released. With the sails unfurled, the ship lurches forward, and into the deep azure of the Aegean sea. Patroclus does not leave the ship’s edge until the dock has become a speck on the horizon.

Chapter Text

Skyros appears on the horizon on the second day of Patroclus’ voyage. It starts as a grey speck in the distance, and seems many miles away. As they approach, the grey speck turns to the terrain of a rocky island, jagged shards of rocks ten times the size of a man sprouted up from the ground to make a formidable scene. 

But Skyros was small. Smaller than most of the islands surrounding it. And Patroclus had been informed that it’s king was old and dwindling, sireing only one daughter and not a single son to be seen. It was only a matter of time before any of the neighbouring islands landed their ships on their rocky shores and took the small island for their own. 

The port near the capital is a sad, small thing. The streets are wet, puddles littering the stones, and the shopkeepers that were selling their wares seem cold and miserable. Not long indeed, Patroclus thinks. 

Patroclus looks upwards, and sees the palace atop a large hill, surrounded by jagged mountain peaks, the cries of circling seagulls and hawks echoing through the air. It would be a difficult journey to the top. Patroclus only readjusts his bag over his shoulder, and resigns himself to begin his ascent. 

“We shall land on Skyros in about three weeks time,” a man from the Ithaca delegation had told him. “The Prince Odysseus, and Diomedes, and a few other kings will all congregate there, but we’re sending you ahead to see if you can find anything.” 

“Like a spy?” Patroclus asked beforehand, somewhat irritated with his assignment. If he were to search for a lost prince, he would much rather do it honestly than through deception. 

“Not a spy, just… a gatherer of information.” 

The man’s argument was not a convincing one. 

“See what you can find, and we’ll meet up with you later. And don’t give away your identity. You’re to be a close friend of Lycomedes who has come for a visit.” 

“A close friend of sixteen years? When the king is what- eighty? Ninety?” 

The man huffed with exasperation. “A son of a friend, then. It doesn’t matter, Patroclus, just don’t give away your identity.” 

Patroclus is not fond of deception. It wasn’t like he was any good at it either. But he was already on the front steps of the palace. There was no turning back now. 

The heavy wooden doors were open when he entered, and he is greeted by a few guards sitting at a table in the empty hall, betting on dice. Patroclus has to clear his throat to get their attention. 

Only one of them looks up, a rather annoyed expression on his face. “Well?” He asks. 

Patroclus supposes that things are simply different in Opus than they are in Skyros. 

“I’m here to see King Lycomedes,” he says in his best princely imitation. He lifts his chin, and straightens his posture so that he might look like a man of some importance. 

One of the guards stands up from his seat, somewhat resigned. “I’ll go,” he says, but Patroclus is quick to refuse him. 

“It is no bother, I’m expected. I know where to go,” he says, and hopes his words are convincing. 

The guard eyes him for a moment, but then nods and returns to his seat, focusing once again on the game in front of him. Patroclus breathes, and picks the hallway to his immediate left, praying that his choice will not arouse suspicion. 

It does not. The guards are not paying attention. 

Patroclus walks down the dark, threadbare hallways of the palace, not sure where to start in his search for the prince. The doorways blend in with each other, each one sullen and gray to the eye. He distantly thinks that if these were his father’s halls, no display would be tolerated. Opus was a kingdom that boasted of their wealth. Even if their gold supplies were dwindling, it never appeared so to the naked eye. 

It is a wonder how no one has laid siege here yet, Patroclus distantly remarks, passing by dull doorways and gloomy hallways. 

But he has to start somewhere, he supposes. 

He sees gray light from underneath a doorway, meaning the room behind it has windows, unlike all the other doorways he had come across. It could be a bedchamber, but it was at the dead end of the hallway. No one would choose this end of the palace, drafty and dull, to keep their lodging. 

It was a good place to start, he decides.

The door creaks when Patroclus pushes it open, and he flinches as the sound echoes through the drafty hallway. He pauses, and only resumes when he is sure no one has heard him. 

The room inside is simple. On the far side lies a small pallet covered in blankets, and there is a table with cosmetics near the window. Simple furnishings adorn the room, a chair with fabrics draped on the arms. And, in the corner, a table with a small lyre placed on it. 

This room was regularly used. And, judging by the contents of the room, it’s occupant was a woman. 

But Patroclus frowns at this thought. He was informed that the girls slept communally, and only the princess Deidameia had her own bedchambers. These could not be hers; they were far too small and modest for a princess, not to mention out of the way in the palace. Who slept here? 

His thoughts are suddenly disrupted by the sound of careful footsteps stopping behind him. He pauses, his back facing the stranger, and thinks that his mission on Skyros is already over before it even begins. Surely he will be arrested for trespassing now. 

“Who are you?” a woman’s voice asks him, light and sweet in tone. Not the accusatory tenor of any of the guards he had imagined. 

Well. Perhaps he is not caught just yet. 

He turns to see a tall blonde girl standing in the doorway, watching him with a curious look on her face. 

Patroclus thinks that he must look a similar way, with an expression of bare recognition, because he swears he knows her from somewhere. But perhaps not, because her hair - although tied up - was the most stunning shade of gold that it almost seemed like liquid fire atop her head. He would not have forgotten it, even if he only saw her in passing in his father’s halls. 

“I... “ he stutters, finding words coming to him slower than usual. “I apologize, my lady, I-” 

“You did not answer my question,” she interrupts. “Who are you? And why are you in my bedchambers?” 

She has a beautiful voice. She would be an excellent singer, Patroclus thinks in passing. 

“I was looking for the king, I’m meant to meet him today,” he tries to explain, finding his alibi floundering the girl’s presence. 

The girl only arches an eyebrow at him, unconvinced. Patroclus cannot say he blames her. 

“I got lost,” he admits sheepishly.

The girl regards him for a moment, and Patroclus cannot tell if she is trying to choose her next words or trying to remember where they’d met before; because surely they had. 

“The king is not here, he will return next week,” she says finally, and Patroclus feels a pit drop in his gut. It seems he was right about Skyros, then. Without interrogating the king, there was no way he could find any evidence of the missing prince. He could not be here. 

“I can take you to Princess Deidameia, though. She is to receive an audience in his absence.” 

Patroclus finds himself nodding his assent, and soon the girl is leading him down a series of hallways towards what Patroclus imagines is where the Princess of Skyros will receive him. 

“You did not tell me your name,” the girl says as they pass by rows of identical doorways. 

“Philomedes,” Patroclus tells her automatically. Son of Philomena, his mother’s name. It was the alias he sometimes was required to give while they searched. It was more true to him than his father’s name, Menoitiades, in any case. 

But the girl frowns when she hears it. “No, that’s not right” she mumbles, as if she had not meant him to hear her. “Your real name,” she tells him directly. 

“I am Patroclus,” he tells her, wondering exactly how she had picked up on his lie so quickly. She was not anyone of consequence, just a foster daughter of some nobleman. Not even the lords of his own kingdom were familiar with his name half the time, she would not know him. 

But she pauses, an odd look passing over her face. “Patroclus,” she says, testing his name in her mouth. She does not slur over the syllables as so many often did. Pa-tro-clus. She says it carefully. 

“What is your name?” Patroclus asks after a moment, and he sees the girl hesitate before giving him an answer. 

“Pyrrha, my lord,” she says, her voice lighter than before. Patroclus holds back a frown, because he knows that is not right, but does not voice his observation. 

They come to a large door at the end of a hallway, where Patroclus assumes the princess is ready to receive him, so he does not have a chance to ask. 

Patroclus opens the door, and seated before the dying embers of a fire sits a young woman. She looks up at the sound of the door opening, and gives both her visitors a cat-like smile. 

“Welcome, stranger,” she says, her voice high and piercing, almost like that of a child. “I am the princess Deidameia. To whom do I have the honour of speaking?” 

Remembering his courtly manners, Patroclus gives the girl a bow. If she was the source to possibly finding the lost prince, he could not afford to offend her. “I am called Philomedes,” he says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. 

The princess hums, and leans her head into her hand, eyeing Patroclus from where she sits. “And what business do you have here, Philomedes?” 

“I have come to ask a kindness from your father,” Patroclus says automatically, hoping that his response does not seem practiced. He’s been running the words of greeting through his head since the boat was docked, but he could not have been prepared for the king’s absence. If he thought talking with the king would be nerve-wracking, speaking with his daughter was downright terrifying. 

The princess makes an odd sound in the back of her throat, and regards him for a moment. “Thank you, Pyrrha,” she says, dismissing the other girl. The door is shut soundly, leaving just Patroclus and the impish princess. 

“What kind of kindness were you expecting to receive?” she asks after a moment. 

Patroclus sees no point in delaying the inevitable. “I am looking for someone.” 

“And who would this someone be?” 

“A young man.” 

The princess seems to find something he says amusing, because she tries to hide a giggle behind her hand. “Such direct answers, stranger,” she teases. “A young man, you say. Well, we have a few of those around here. Why do you seek him?” 

“I have a message for him,” Patroclus says, trying his best not to be unnerved by casual answers. “An important one.” 

“ Oo, an important message! I do so love those kinds of messages, don’t you?” 

She is meaning to tease, and Patroclus cannot decide if she’s doing so simply because it is in her nature or if she is trying to distract him from something. 

Her face grows solemn at his lack of response. “Perhaps I have seen a young man,” she says. “Or perhaps not. So many ships have come here seeking someone… it is hard to remember all those who pass by. I shall have to think about it.” 

Patroclus just about leaves then, because it is suddenly very clear that he will get nothing from the princess. Nothing of use, in any case. 

“You shall stay for dinner, and await my decision,” she says, then the cat-like smile returns to her face as a thought appears. “I may even dance for you with my women.” 

The blank look of indifference Patroclus wears at her words causes her to frown. “Surely you’ve heard of Deidameia’s women?”

“I cannot say I have,” Patroclus reponds, and the princess gives him an exaggerated pout. 

“Then perhaps you are in for a treat, stranger,” she grins at him, and Patroclus feels like a mouse being eyed hungrily by a cat. But how else is he going to get her to admit to knowing where Achilles is? 

“I would be honoured, my lady,” he says with a fake smile, hoping the princess sees it as genuine. 

~ 

The fish served at dinner were too salted, making Patroclus’ face pucker every time he took a bite. 

It seemed as if the princess Deidameia was trying to impress him tonight. All the counsellors and advisors were invited to dinner, and Patroclus could see from the confusions and the bewilderment on their faces that they were surprised to receive a summons for a simple dinner at all. 

As for the princess herself, she could not pretend to be more pleased with her guests' arrival. She laughed loudly, and smiled too widely, and offered wine and fish to the noblemen too quickly. She boasted of her kingdom's vineyards (though Patroclus could not imagine anything growing on the desolate, rocky terrain of the island), and shared dramatic anecdotes to appease her guests. 

It seemed to Patroclus that she was trying too hard. But what could she hope to accomplish? If anything, he should be the one trying to impress and please her, not the other way around. Not when she may have the information he needed. 

But Patroclus does not have long to reflect on such observations. The princess stands in front of the tables the men sit at once dinner is starting to be cleared, and claps her hands gleefully to get her guests’ attention. 

“My lords, I thank you all for your generosity and your delightful company this evening. It is not often that the princess of Skyros has the opportunity to dine with such valiant warriors!” 

Most of the men were going to sail with their respective kingdoms to Troy. Patroclus can hear them hum their approval at her words. If it was anything men liked to hear the most, it was flattery. 

“And tonight, we have a treat for you, as myself and my women have agreed to dance!” 

The hall is then filled with roaring agreement; of men knocking their cups together and voicing their excitement. It appears these dancers are known throughout most of Achaea. 

The princess gestures to her right, and a dozen women enter the room from the side, all taking their places around her on the hall’s floor. One of them stands out, and Patroclus recognizes the tall blonde girl from before. Pyrrha, his mind supplies. 

He sees the princess turn to him, a grin on her face. “Now, stranger, you cannot say you have not seen Deidameia’s women.” 

A gesture, and music starts to fill the air, a lively tune made for dancing to. The girls begin their dance, swirling in and out from either in complex patterns. The bangles on their ankles jingle with their steps, and their veils fly around them as they spin, leaving an entrancing sight in their wake. 

Patroclus can hear the men around him voice their appreciation. 

“Do you see the short one? With the curly black hair? What I would pay for a night with her.” 

“What about the slender one on the right, wearing blue? She’s a sight, isn’t she?” 

“I prefer the one over there, in green. Heh, you know what they say, boys. The bigger, the better!” 

But Patroclus does not hear here the words wafting around the room. His eyes are fixed on the tall blonde girl, instead. 

The way she moves is different from the other girls. Her feet are barefoot, gliding effortlessly on the stone floors it is almost as if she is floating above it. She doesn’t just dance to the music, but enhances it with her movements, interpreting it in the way her skirts twirl around her legs. 

Patroclus recognizes her then. He has never seen anyone else move the way the blond in front of him does.

The music ends with a final, triumphant note, the girls’ hands raised in the air in a final move. They are all grinning like mad, cheeks flushed from the exertion and pleasure of performing. The men give them thunderous applause for their efforts, and soon many of them are heading towards girls to speak with them. 

Patroclus gets up from his seat, and makes his way towards the blond, taking a final gulp of his wine for courage. 

“Pyrrha,” he says to her for the benefit of those around them. The blond turns, cheeks a dusty pink, chest still heaving from the dance. “You danced wonderfully tonight.” 

“I… thank you, my lord,” the blond says, tucking a piece of fallen hair out of the way. 

Patroclus nods towards a hallway leading away from the main hall. “May I have a word?” 

He can see the blond hesitate, giving him a curious glance. 

“It will only be for a moment, then you may return if you wish.” 

A moment passes, then the blond nods. They both retreat to the hallway, and walk in silence until Patroclus is certain they are away from any stray eyes or ears that may have followed them. 

“I didn’t know you could dance, my prince,” Patroclus says, and the blond stops beside him suddenly, staring at him with wide eyes. 

“I…” he flounders. “I’m sorry?” 

“You are the missing Prince Achilles, are you not? From Phthia?” They both know he is, but Patroclus wants to hear him admit it rather than demand the truth. 

The blond hesitates in his answer, but that alone is enough to confirm Patroclus’ suspicion. 

“How did you know?” the boy asks once he realizes he’s been caught. 

“No one moves the way you do,” Patroclus tells him without thinking about it; on impulse. Somehow, he knows no other words would suffice. 

But it seems that his answer is not enough. 

“I don’t know if you remember, but the games were held in Opus a few years ago,” He begins to elaborate. “I watched you race. I had never seen anyone move that way before. I actually thought you were a God.” 

The boy says nothing, and waits for him to continue. 

“I recognized you tonight because I knew I’d seen you before. And since I’m certain that I will never see anyone else move that way, you could not be one of the women, but instead hiding as one.” 

“You put two and two together.” 

Patroclus nods, looking at his feet instead of the disguised prince in front of him. He cannot bear to stay to have his undivided attention for too long. He was just as golden as he was all those years ago, and it was hard to meet his eyes if not accustomed. Like staring into the sun. 

And suddenly, a quiet laugh breaks the silence that had grown around them. Patroclus looks up to him to find him almost grinning in the torchlight. It is odd, he thinks, frowning. 

“Of course it would be you,” the prince says. “I recognized your name, when you gave it to me. The boy from the marketplace. I gave you a fig.” 

Patroclus nods, remembering. Catch, he’d said, tossing his juggling prop to him. He remembered the grainy sweetness of the fig, the juice leaving his fingers sticky, and the blinding grin of the golden boy in front of him. The prince he sees now is not so different, he thinks. 

 “I told her it would not work,” the prince continues, but his grin drops suddenly as soon as the words leave his mouth. The change in his demeanor is unsettling; the transition from a sunrise to cold marble is jarring, and Patroclus almost feels winded watching it. 

“Will you tell them, then? Who I am?” 

They both know that if he does, that will be the end of his charade. He was here because he did not wish to go to war. One word from Patroclus and he would be on the next ship to Troy. 

Patroclus thinks of the sun, and hesitates. “I do not know,” he says. Patroclus knew of Achilles’ supposed reputation; the greatest warrior of his generation. There was a reason the kings of Achaea sought him out for their ranks. With him, they would win the war, even though it was yet to begin. 

And yet. 

“There are others coming in about a week.” 

The prince regards him for a moment, as if he could determine Patroclus’ meaning by look alone, then nods his understanding. His fate will be determined in a week. 

~ 

The air smells strongly of lavender when Achilles ducks into the women’s quarters of the palace once the sun has fully dipped below the horizon, and he holds his breath as he tries not to gag. Lavender was the scent Deidameia often wore, and in no small amount. He supposed that she thought he found the scent soothing, but all it did was make him gag. 

But Deidameia is not in the women’s quarters tonight. The other girls are busying themselves with readying for bed, giggling and gossiping to each other as they brushed their hair and dabbed the lavender oil into the palms of their hands. There’s a sense of familiarity that Achilles finds here, and his breaths start to come easier because of it. 

“Pyrrha!” One of the girls, Persea was her name, calls excitedly as she bounds across the room to meet him, a grin on her face. Achilles sees the others start to look up, making known their excitement as he enters. 

“So?” Persea asks with a sly, knowing grin that leaves Achilles confused. 

“So, what?” He asks. 

“Oh, don’t be so shy, Pyrrha! The stranger from today seemed awfully taken with you tonight!” 

The other girls start to giggle at Persea’s words, voicing their agreement. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Achilles says, ducking away from where Persea had practically pinned him to the wall. 

In truth, he didn’t particularly want to think about Patroclus at the moment. He was in a rather complicated position with the other boy, the other having found out his identity just by watching him for a brief moment. One word from him, and his mother’s charade would shatter beneath his feet. 

(He wanted to say he didn’t care about whether or not he went to war. There was a prophecy about him, after all. The greatest warrior of his generation. He was made for war. He was not afraid of it, in fact, he could feel the blood in his veins practically singing with a need to move . 

But his mother had decided for him. And she was a goddess. He has learned not to question her. 

It is for the best, Achilles, she had told him, her harsh voice still ringing in his ears every so often. Like salt water against the craggy rocks of Skyros. 

He heard it when he arrived on the island. 

He heard it when his mother handed him the women’s clothing and gave him his new name. 

And he heard it when his mother had brought the princess Deidameia to his bed, and told him to lay with her.) 

In fact, he could hear it now. Her anger. Her disappointment. 

So yes, he had complicated feelings towards Patroclus. He would rather not think of it too much. He’d save it for the morning, when all the decisions could be made with a clear mind. 

Persea groans with fake exasperation at his answer. “Don’t be daft, Pyrrha! We all saw you go off with him after the dance was done.” 

The girl takes his hands in her own, a gesture of friendship he has gotten used to in his time on Skyros, and sits them both on the edge of one of the girl’s pallets. The other girls gather around, eager to hear of his supposed story. 

“What happened with him?” 

“Did he flirt with you?” One of the girls asked, her hands clasped together at her breast. 

“Did he kiss you?” Another asked, her eyes alight with barely-contained mischief. 

Another girl gasped as a thought came to her. “Did he take you to his chambers?” 

These suggestions sparked a flurry of excited questions, and Achilles could feel a sharp rush of heat travel to his face as the comments became increasingly lewd. 

“No, nothing like that,” Achilles says, eager to stop their concerning imagination from running wild. “Nothing really happened. We just talked.” 

Persea frowns at his answer. “You just talked.” She repeated, almost as if she couldn’t believe it. 

Achilles nods, no longer trusting his voice not to crack, still flustered from the insinuations. 

“Well,” one of the girls says. “There are plenty of things one could talk about. What did he say, Pyrrha?” 

Achilles only shrugged, wracking his mind for anything innocent enough to satiate their hunger for gossip. “He said he liked the dance tonight.” 

Those weren’t exactly the words he’d said. No one moves the way you do. He cannot seem to drive those words from his mind. Just knowing that the other boy had watched him so intently sends his mind spiralling, and an odd feeling settling in his chest. 

But the other girls seem content with that, and start to disperse from around him, chattering on about the gossiping material he had given them. 

“If I were with him, I would’ve done much more than just talk,” one girl says with a smirk, causing some of the girls to giggle. 

“Isn’t that right?” Another girl gasps as a reply, a wide grin on her face. “He’s so handsome, is he not? His olive skin, and dark hair!” 

Some of the other girls murmur in agreement, until one of them turns to Achilles, a knowing grin on her face. “Don’t you agree, Pyrrha?” 

Achilles can feel his face flush as all the girls turn to him, waiting for his opinion. He cannot think of an answer, because this fact in itself is what makes his thoughts surrounding the other boy so conflicting. 

But not only that. Achilles used to dream of dark skin, and black hair so soft it felt like velvet underneath his fingers. He recognized it distantly when he saw Patroclus stuck in his room that afternoon, but couldn’t place it. Not until he’d given his true name. 

(That, and he found him incredibly handsome. Not that he wanted necessarily any of the other girls to think so.) 

“Look!” Persea says with glee when any answer dies in his throat. “She’s blushing!” 

Achilles opens his mouth to deny any of their claims, but a high and shrill voice cuts him off, slicing through the air like a blade. 

“Who?” it says. 

His head spins towards the door to see Deidameia standing in the doorway, a hand on her hip as the room quickly goes silent. But that was just the way of the princess of Skyros; she demanded all the attention of the room with her presence. 

Persea ducks her head, not willing to meet Deidameia’s eyes head-on. Achilles cannot say he blames her. “Nothing, your highness. We simply jest.” 

Deidameia hums her acknowledgment, but quickly turns her attention away from the matter, and instead aims it towards Achilles. 

“I’ve been looking for you Pyrrha,” she says. “Will you come help me prepare for bed?” 

Her gaze is piercing, like arrows aimed directly at his head. The way she looks at someone reminds Achilles none too fondly of his mother, with her dagger-like eyes and harsh-sounding voice. 

Achilles does not say goodnight to the other girls, and instead exits the room with Deidameia. They walk in silence towards her chambers. 

This nightly occurrence had become routine over the past few months. Deidameia’s women were more like her handmaidens, but she had taken special attention towards ‘Pyrrha’. Now more so that she knew his true identity. 

(And now that they were technically married. But that was a fact Achilles took no pleasure in thinking about.) 

He helped brush her hair, and she in turn combed the knots of the day from his. They never spoke; she used to try and converse with him, but all words she said fell flat. It was better to work in silence. After that, he would haunt the halls to the other side of the palace to his own chambers. 

But that does not happen tonight. 

“You danced wonderfully tonight, husband.” She says, and Achilles’ jaw clenches at the title, but does not respond. He only continues to run the brush through her hair from root to end. 

“The traveller Philomedes seemed to think so as well. He was rather taken with you this afternoon, I think.” 

Achilles falters, but only for a moment. He does not answer. 

“Did you think him as handsome as the other girls seem to?” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Achilles says, his own voice sounding tense to his ears. 

“I think you know exactly what I mean,” she responds, her voice just as sharp as his own. “I do not care if you like him or not. But you cannot have him. He’s going to war, and you are staying here. Do you understand?” 

Achilles hates her a little bit, he thinks. Do you understand, she says, as if he were a child that was in need of chastisement. He does not give her a response, but places the wooden comb down on the small table instead. 

He hears Deidameia sigh as she gets to her feet, heading towards her bed. She climbs on to it, arranging herself on the blankets just so, the thin material of her nightdress hanging loosely over her body. 

“Lay with me tonight,” she says. It does not sound like a request, but rather a demand. 

“No,” Achilles tells her, still seated on the other side of the room. They had already lain together once, and that one time was more than enough. 

“You will lay with me tonight,” she tries again, her voice hardening. But Achilles shakes his head in refusal. 

“I will not.” 

Deidameia huffs in frustration. “You have to.” 

“I do not.” 

“You do. You are my husband, whether either of us likes it or not. You cannot leave me here on this island now that we are married. It is better that we get used to it sooner rather than later.” 

She pauses, her hard look going soft, but Achilles knows it is not for his benefit. Her voice grows quiet when she says, “It is for the best, Achilles.” 

He can almost hear the way his mother says it to him now. It is for the best. Like salted waves crashing on the jagged cliffside. What the words really say is: you do not have a choice. 

He blows out the candles beforehand, leaving the room painted in black. It is better to do it in darkness, he finds. He wonders if it is the same for her.

Chapter Text

Skyros, Patroclus finds, is a very lonely place. 

His week on the pitiful excuse for an island is spent half in the palace, receiving the hospitality of the princess (and the king Lycomedes, when he arrived a few days later), half wandering the marketplace in search of any sort of entertainment. It would be more interesting here if he hadn’t immediately discovered the prince’s identity. At least then he would have something to do. 

It is in these moments that Patroclus wishes the most for the presence of Xenokrates. At least then he would have someone to talk to that was not at least his own age quadrupled. He would jest about the advisors, or play trinity with him to pass the time, or create mischief on the town docks simply because they could. It is what they would have done in Opus, in any case. 

But for now, Patroclus simply wanders the halls of the palace, trying to become familiar with the twisting halls and passageways as he waits for the prince Odysseus and the rest of their search party to arrive on Skyros’ shores. It would only be a day or two now. 

From down the hallway, he hears something. The pluck of a lyre string sending a melodic note sailing through the air. Then, the sound of a voice accompanying it; a rich and full tenor echoing down the hallway. Patroclus pauses to listen, already entranced by the man’s voice. 

He follows it down the hallway, and sees sunlight pour through a crack where a door is open only by a sliver. He stops near the door, and peeks inside, his curiosity as to who the singer is growing too strong to ignore. Not when the voice is so hauntingly beautiful. 

Patroclus sees him, and thinks that he really should not be surprised. 

The prince Achilles is there, his fingers dancing along the lyre strings, weaving skillful melodies and accompanying with his voice. Patroclus does not recognize the song he sings, with both his voice and the lyre strings making complex harmonies. 

His eyes are closed as he sings, Patroclus notices, so he will not see when he cracks the door open just a bit further to get a better look. 

But the song is cut short with a sharp creak from the door, and Patroclus cringes with the sudden, interrupted silence. He had forgotten the door had a nasty habit of announcing its presence. 

“Who goes there?” He hears the prince ask, his voice higher than before. To avoid suspicion from any who might try to discover his true identity, Patroclus supposes. 

“It’s just me,” Patroclus says, albeit awkwardly, as he pokes his head through the doorway. The prince relaxes slightly when he sees him, glad he has not been caught by someone else. 

“Is there something you wanted?” He asks, his voice having dropped along with his charade as Patroclus opens the door wider. He is still holding the small lyre in his hands, his fingers just above the strings he had played only moments before. It is strange, Patroclus thinks while looking at it, that such a small and inconsequential object could make such a beautiful sound. 

Or, perhaps that was mostly due to the boy in front of him. 

“I apologize,” he says bashfully. “I heard music, and wanted to see. I’ll leave you-” 

“You heard it?” 

Patroclus pauses at his question, halfway out of the room already. Of course he had heard it, it was the only music he had heard in months that he truly enjoyed. He was drawn to it like sunflowers are to the sun, he couldn’t have been pulled away. 

But no words he thinks of can properly articulate this. He nods instead. 

The prince smiles then, and leans forward from where he sits. “What did you think? Did you like it?” 

“It was beautiful,” Patroclus says, but he knows then that it is not enough. “I’ve never heard anything like it. It was absolutely beautiful.” 

Patroclus watches as the prince keens at his words, grinning at the praise. “Thank you,” he says. “But the best part is near the end. Would you like to hear it?” 

It is an invitation, Patroclus knows. For what purpose, he is not certain; to tell whether or not he will reveal his identity to the others looking for him, or a ploy to gain his favour. But Patroclus finds that he does not care, and is already making his way into the room to sit next to him so he can watch him play. He shuts the door behind him, and takes a seat across from him on the floor. 

He begins the song again, and Patroclus watches as his fingers dance over the strings once again, pulling chord after chord from the small instrument. Patroclus thinks that this must be the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. 

But he is quickly proven wrong, because it seems that the first few notes were simply an interlude. The prince takes a breath, and begins to sing along with the music. 

Patroclus is helpless to watch with wonder. He was right, he thinks. The prince Achilles is an exceptional singer. 

The song goes on for only a few minutes, but Patroclus thinks that he could listen to it for the rest of his life and be content. His voice accompanies the strings with melodical precision, but it is not just his skill that is captivating. When he sings, it is as if he puts his own soul into the words. 

He can tell the song is nearing its end when the dynamics increase, and his fingers pluck the strings faster, leading upwards to a moment of intensity. He pauses in a sudden silence, leaving Patroclus on the precipice to the last, final note. Then, so very gently, a single, final chord. 

Patroclus is silent at first, and he can sense the prince watching him, waiting for critique. But no words can seem to form. 

“I…” he starts, but quickly abandons the comment. There was nowhere for it to go. “Did you write it?” He asks instead. There was no possible way he could have forgotten about such a song if he’d ever heard it before. 

The prince nods. “I did.” 

“What is it about?” Patroclus asks, because there is nothing else he can think to ask as his mind catches up with what he heard. 

He sees the prince hesitate. He can almost see the words on the top of his tongue, waiting to spill out, but he holds them back. Instead, there is a searching look towards him, like he is deciding whether or not to tell him the song’s true meaning. Patroclus cannot blame him. With the performance the prince gave him, he had practically bared his soul to Patroclus. 

 “I don’t know,” the prince opts for, lowering the lyre down onto his lap. “Nothing, really. Just these dreams I have sometimes. Nothing important.” 

But he is lying, Patroclus can tell. If it were of nothing important, he would not have sung the song the way he did. 

But Patroclus had found that the prince was like that sometimes. Despite the awkwardness of their situation, there had been a few moments where they had gotten to know each other to an extent. How there were moments of playfulness, and moments of an intensity so great it was as if Patroclus was staring directly at the sun. But most of all, there were moments of calmness, where both of them were content in each other’s wordless company. 

In some of these moments, rare though they were, Patroclus could almost feel speech radiating off of the prince beside him. Words he longed to say, but could not for his own private reason. Patroclus was not one to pry, but it seemed these moments only happened when he was there. There was a connection, he could feel it. But could not tell what it was or why it was as important as it felt. 

“Will you play it again?” Patroclus asks, breaking the silence that had grown around them. 

The prince gives him a smile, so much softer than the grin he usually wore, and raised the lyre once again, his fingers poised over the strings. 

~ 

The week passes quickly. Before Patroclus had fathomed it, the guards were announcing the arrival of Odysseus, Diomedes, and a few other kings and princes who were searching for the prince Achilles on the shores of Skyros. He would be expected to give a report of his findings. 

He saw the prince glance at him when the guard had announced their arrival at the docks. Please do not, his eyes seemed to plead. 

In truth, Patroclus had not yet made up his mind as to what his decision would be. Without the famed Achilles, it seemed very likely that the armies of Achaea would be at war for years to come. Troy was fat and rich, but they were well protected, and had many food stores besides their reliance on the neighbouring towns and cities. Raids would not diminish them to the point of desperation so quickly. And besides, a small, deep part of him wondered why the prince should be exempt from a war that many others like him were required to attend. 

But then again, he had seen the prince as he doubted many others did. He was only sixteen, the same age as Patroclus himself. They were barely men. How could he condemn another to a fate as horrific as war? Was it not enough for him to bear the burden himself, but also drag another as bright as the sun itself with him? 

He was divided as to what he would do, to say the least. 

The kings and princes would be joining them for dinner as the sun began to dip below the horizon, and the palace seemed to suddenly come alive with preparations for a feast for their visitors. Patroclus had learned early on that Skyros usually did not receive many guests at all, let alone kings from far-away kingdoms. 

The hall of the palace was filled with noblemen, the king Lycomedes and his daughter seated at the front of the room, when the heavy doors of the palace were opened, and the foreigners entered. 

“We welcome you, Odysseus, and Diomedes,” Lycomedes says, his thin voice carrying weakly throughout the room. His welcome is taken with tolerating smiles. 

The dinner is soon served; too-seasoned fish with too-watered wine, and Patroclus wrings his wrists beneath the table, stealing glances both at the doorway where he knew the dancers resided and Odysseus, who was beside him. He knew the man would want a report of his findings (or lack thereof) before any decisions were made. 

He takes a sip of his wine, barely tasting the flavour due to the water diluting it, and wishes he had his dice to occupy his hands with.  

It is only when the other, unsuspecting men at the table becoming involved in their own conversations does Odysseus strike. 

“So, Patroclus,” he starts, cutting into the roasted fish on his plate. “How have you found Skyros?” 

Patroclus knows what he asks. Have you found him? Where is Achilles? 

Patroclus takes another sip of his water-wine, if only to delay the inevitable, and pauses. 

The image of the prince comes to his mind unbidden. His golden hair and even golder smile. His hands tossing figs in the air and plucking beautiful melodies from lyre strings. The bare soles of his feet a blur against the sands of the gaming arena, and gliding effortlessly over the stone floors. 

But then. His skin is bloodied, completely caked with gore that you cannot tell that his hair is golden rather than crimson. It comes out in a gruesome waterfall and dyes the bathwater a sickening red. His eyes are stone and his smile is gone, replaced with hard lines of a frown. And then… Patroclus must concentrate, but he can see a glimpse of it. 

Grief. 

All-consuming grief. 

Patroclus swallows the water-wine, and gives Odysseus a shake of his head. No other words seem to be needed. Odysseus frowns in disappointment, and turns back to his food. 

Deidameia calls out her dancers once food plates have been cleared and the wine casks have been filled, pouring into the cups of their visitors. And for the second time, Patroclus watches them dance, the prince Achilles hidden behind a veil to conceal his hair. To have hair his color was uncommon enough from where they are from; attracting unwanted attention would be far from wise, especially with the hawk eyes of Odysseus searching for him. 

Patroclus notices the other men comment on the girls greedily, eyeing them as if they were no more than meat on a platter. But Patroclus pays them no mind. The prince is as marvellous as he was before, and Patroclus is content simply to watch. 

The dance ends, the musicians in the corner playing the final chord with perfect synchronicity, the dancers ending with their hands in the air. The men applaud them with hungry grins, some of them whistling their appreciation. 

Patroclus glances at Odysseus beside him, expecting to find a similar reaction from the man. But instead, he finds his eyes dancing along the girls, never stopping for too long on just one. He’s searching for something, Patroclus realizes. 

But he will never find the prince. The way he clenches his jaw in minute frustration is all the tell Patroclus needs. The only way Patroclus knew it was him before was because he’d seen him previously, on a different occasion. By all accounts, he and Odysseus had never met. He could not be found. 

After a moment, Odysseus stands from his seat with a generous smile, a far different face that Patroclus had just seen him wear. The men around the table look at him, awaiting whatever words he would say. 

“We thank you, Lycomedes, for the lovely performance. It is not every day a man can say they have had the dancers of Skyros perform for them.” 

Several of the men nod their agreement, some side-eying the girls that still stand on the stone stage. 

“As a token of our appreciation,” Odysseus continues. “We have brought gifts from our kingdoms for you and your men.” 

The girls gasp excitedly as they suddenly take notice of several men carrying in heavy chests towards the hall. They open the chests with a flourish, revealing delicacies Patroclus guesses the girls have not seen before on Skyros. Jewelry of gold, silver, and copper, inlaid with precious gems and rhinestones. Mirrors of polished bronze, combs made from bone and inlaid with jade. And, off to the side, a variety of spears, blades and daggers, carefully crafted shields, and helmets with horse-hair plumes for the soldiers and men of Skyros. 

“I… thank you, my lord,” Lycomedes says, flustered by the abrupt and showy display that is placed before him. 

The girls rush towards the chests of gems and jewelry, talking animatedly to each other as they peruse the goods. Patroclus can see many of the men of Skyros eyeing the weaponry from the table. Many of them were going to war soon, and the objects in front of them were finely made. 

Patroclus watches the prince move slowly towards the chests of treasures, his eyes lingering on the glittering spearheads and plumed helmets to the side. Patroclus glances at Odysseus to see that the searching look from before had returned, his eyes skimming over the girls crowded at the chests. 

But Achilles does not linger on the weaponry for long, and picks up a pair of jade earrings, holding them up to his ears near the bronze mirror as if to inspect them on himself. Patroclus cannot help but smile softly at the gesture, and misses the slight nod Odysseus gives to an unseen figure. 

A trumpet blows from outside, loud and panicked. The girls start, jumping away from the chests to look towards the door. The sound is suspended for a moment, then quickly followed by three more short blasts. The signal for complete and terrible disaster. 

The girls shriek, and the men at the table jump to their feet, hands going to the short blades strapped to their sides. Some of them make a run towards the weapons on the other side of the room, dodging in between the girls who were scattering from the hall, eager to flee to the passageways before any armies descend upon them. 

All but one. 

The prince Achilles springs to action, dropping the earrings to the stone floor as he bounds towards the spear rack so quickly Patroclus sees it as a blur. In a moment, the spear is drawn with an artful, graceful flourish, and one of the bronze shields is held so lightly it might as well have been made of wood. No one moves the way you do. 

But no one barges through the doors of the hall. Patroclus, gripping the edge of his seat, glances up at Odysseus, and sees that he is grinning. 

“Greetings, Prince Achilles,” he says, his satisfaction thick with his tone. “We’ve been looking for you.” 

Achilles does not lower his spear, nor does he drop his stance. He observes all the men at the table, and it is then he registers the trick. 

“Fuck,” he says.

~ 

“You tricked me,” Achilles accuses as soon as he, Odysseus, and the other men of his party are ushered away privately to talk. 

“You were hiding,” Odysseus counters, as if this fact were worse than the trap he’d devised. “And you did not make it easy to be found. We needed to be clever to find you.” 

Achilles feels his jaw clench with irritation of the other man’s steady voice. He would’ve rather been elated that they tricked him out of hiding, rather than the subtle smugness he wore at the fact. “Well,” he says. “You’ve found me. What do you want?” 

“To come to Troy and fight with us.” 

“And what if I refuse? I am not held by any oath, as I’m aware you are.” 

“Then this,” Diomedes intercedes, gesturing at the skirts he still wears. “Will be made known to everyone.” 

Achilles feels heat rush to his face at the comment, and the shame that the thought brings. He found, in all his time of hiding, that he did not mind the dresses and dancing as other boys would have. But it was one thing to enjoy it in secret while it was quite another to let others know of it.

“But we need not go to such extremities, I’m sure,” Odysseus says, sparing his companion a sharp eye. “There are other reasons to fight with us. I hear you’ve been promised fame, Achilles? You’ll find no greater fame than at this war.” 

Yes, that’s what he had told his mother when she had practically kidnapped him in the middle of the night all those nights ago. He thought that would entice her to turn back, at least, since she was always the one to go on about his promised fame. There will be other wars, she had said instead. He still remembers it, her detached voice, staring out onto the sea bathed in moonlight. 

For now, he could think of no better excuse. “Wars happen all the time,” he says. 

“Not like this one,” a voice from the back of the room supplies carefully, almost like it was not meant to be said out loud. Odysseus and Diomedes part to reveal Patroclus, clinging to the edge of a wall as if he could disappear into it if he tried hard enough. 

Achilles sees him, and fixes him with a glare. Patroclus was the only one who knew his identity who would gain from revealing it. Just the fact that he was in the room at all was proof he had come at the behest of Odysseus. He probably told him as well.

“What are you, sixteen?” Diomedes asks. “What do you know of war?” 

Achilles finds himself agreeing, more with the accusation than the actual content of the question. 

Patroclus blanks, clearly not expecting to be called upon. He hesitates, glancing at the men around the room before finally setting on Achilles. “There will be no war like this one,” he says, this time with more conviction than before. Achilles finds that he believes him. 

“And?” Achilles responds, this time directing his words towards Odysseus. “You have all these pretty words towards the cause, but all I see is a cuckolded husband and Myceanean greed.” 

This punches a laugh out of Diomedes, almost startling with its volume. “You cannot be serious. That’s your objection? This cause is more noble than any others have ever claimed to be! What more honourable reason to fight a war than for the most beautiful woman in the world? None of the other heroes of legend can say they did as much.” 

Achilles knows this. He’s been told all it before, his mother telling him against it. He can hear her say: you will get your fame in time. 

She hadn’t even tried to comfort him, as a mother would have. Cold and harsh, he hears it’s for the best, Achilles.  

“Troy is in the East, across the Aegean,” he says, trying to drown out the harsh voice. “The campaign would take years. At least two.” 

Odysseus seems to know what he asks. “Perhaps,” he shrugs. “I do not know. It will be less if we have you with us. The sons of Troy are renowned for their military skill. If you do not fight them, no one will.” 

Hector, he thinks when Odysseus speaks, the name sprouting in his mind so suddenly he almost stumbles. There is a certain type of rage he feels with that name, an ancient anger. 

(But that is ridiculous, because Achilles has never met the man. What has Hector ever done to him?) 

“Besides,” the man continues. “If you miss this, you will miss your chance at immortality. I am to believe you had hopes for Olympus later on?” 

Not him, necessarily, but his mother. She wants him to be a God, and says if he becomes famous enough, he will achieve it. But that is not what Achilles focuses on. 

“You don’t know that,” he says, his tone more accusatory than he meant it to sound. 

“I do, actually. For some reason, I have apparently earned the privilege of knowledge from the Gods. A prophecy. About you, in fact.” 

Achilles has heard these before. All his life. You will be the greatest warrior of your generation. A hero inscribed into history for millenia to come. The way Odysseus says it now makes it sound different. 

It seems like he can sense the question before Achilles even asks it. What prophecy? “If you do not come to Troy, your godhead will be lost. Your strength and speed will diminish, and you will die alone and forgotten, no better than Lycomedes here. People will hear your name and ask: who?” 

Achilles stills at these words, but not for the reason he thinks he should. He would live a simple life. Not famous, but peaceful. He knows he should abhor the thought; he was promised immeasurable fame all his life. But for some reason, he does not find the thought as unappealing as he should. 

(He feels twitches of disgust at the image Odysseus produces, though. Like a scratch he can’t itch. If he never went, he would be content, but he knows the itch would stay.) 

It is at this moment when a new voice cuts through the air, sharp and rough like salt water on the cliffside. It is a voice he knows well. 

“Tell him the rest,” she demands. The other men in front of him cower; she is a Goddess, afterall. It would almost be an insult to her if they did not. 

Odysseus is the only one who does not bend to her will. Instead, he gives her a cat-like smile. “Greetings, Thetis,” he says. 

“Tell him,” she repeats, her hands clenched into fists, her jaw set in a straight, angry line. 

“It’s true, then?” Achilles asks, noticing how his mother seems as tense as a bowstring about to snap. In all his years, he has never seen her this way. Unsure, or afraid. 

A moment, the breaths of the other men filling the silence of the room as they wait for his mother to speak. “Yes,” she says slowly. “It is true. If you do not go, you will wither. But that is not all.” 

She turns to Odysseus, a sharp glare on her face that would make any other mortal turn to stone. “Tell him the rest.” 

Odysseus sighs a long, slow breath. “There is another condition. If you do go, you will die an early death. Most likely in Troy.” 

Achilles pauses at this. “Is this certain?” He asks, this time directed at his mother. 

“It is certain,” she says. No hint of consolation is evident. Almost as if she had heard the proclamation of her son’s death a million times before. 

And there it is, he thinks. The price for eternal fame. A life for a name extended. Was it worth a short life? But could he bear living knowing he was made for something more? 

His voice is uncharacteristically small when he asks: “What should I do?” She was a Goddess. If anyone could guide him, it was her. 

But she does not. “Do not ask me,” she says, then leaves just as abruptly as she came. 

~

Night has fallen when Achilles is seen again; after Odysseus and the others had left once the prophecy was said, Achilles had shut the door to his chambers and not emerged. Patroclus cannot say he blames him. Did he not have a similar reaction when he was told he must go to Troy? 

Still. Patroclus is surprised when the prince takes a seat next to him on the cliffside overlooking the sea, bathed in Selene’s ethereal glow. 

They both sit in silence for a moment, watching the moonlight reflect off the waves below them, surprisingly calm where there is a sense of turmoil surrounding them. 

“What would you do?” The prince asks suddenly, breaking the silence that had grown. But Patroclus frowns at his question, stealing a glance at the other boy. 

“I hardly think we have similar situations,” he says. At least the prince had a semblance of a choice. Another option that did not end in a terrible death. 

“Don’t we?” The prince asks instead, his voice tense. “You will go to Troy whether you wish it or not, and maybe you will die there like I will. Who’s to say? But me?” 

He pauses, and fixes Patroclus with a glare not unlike his mother’s from before. Like if he tried hard enough, Patroclus would turn to stone. “I will die either way. So perhaps you’re right, in that our situations are different. I will die at Troy, and I will die here.” 

“But you would live a long life here,” Patroclus counters, feeling anger rise at the prince’s apparent conceit. “You’d rule a kingdom, and have a wife and a family. I know many men who would prefer such a life, quiet though it may be.” 

But they both know Patroclus is not speaking the truth. He knows many men who would sell their own children if it meant they could join in the glory of this war. In truth, it is Patroclus himself who would prefer a quiet life to the supposed glory of battle. 

“I would lose everything,” the prince practically hisses back. “I am half divine! If I stay, and I lose everything that makes me, then what is left?” 

Patroclus says nothing, feeling only frustration radiating off the other boy. Patroclus knows anger, knows how it comes and goes like the rising of a tide. The anger now is not directed towards him, Patroclus knows. 

“I do not wish to argue,” Patroclus says after a moment. “I believe you have my answer.” 

He gets to his feet, wanting to leave the prince and his anger to the cliffside, but a strangled sound stops him. 

“She’s pregnant.” 

Patroclus stops, and turns to face the other boy once again. Instead of the frustration of only seconds before, now he only sees anguish. 

“Who?” He asks. 

“The princess. Deidameia.” The prince spits her name out like a poison. “We’re both only sixteen, and she’s pregnant- ” 

Something by the way the prince says it makes Patroclus believe the child’s conception was not his choice. “Do you love her?” 

The prince only shakes his head, almost violently. “No. Gods, no, I don’t. I couldn’t, I-” 

He cuts himself off abruptly, turning to look at Patroclus once again. “Do you ever… do you ever feel like you’re made to be something more? Or like someone’s missing but you don’t know who?” 

Do you ever think, Patroclus, that you were made for more than this? His mother, weaving strands of grass between her fingers that were bathed in dying sunlight. 

Warily, Patroclus nods. 

“I’m missing someone,” the prince says. “And that is why I cannot love her. And… and it’s why I cannot stay. If I did, I would never find my person. And I would be wasted, as well. I’m supposed to be the greatest of my generation, did you know? That’s what I’m made for.” 

“You think they’ll be at Troy, then?” 

“I don’t know,” the prince admits. “But if I’m to die young there, then I certainly hope so.” 

Patroclus nods, and stands next to where Achilles is seated. That is it, Patroclus supposes. Achilles will go to Troy, if this conversation is anything to go off of. They stand there together for a few more minutes, the only sounds in the air are their own breathing, and the waves crashing gently on the rocks below them.

Chapter Text

It takes three days to get back to Opus. Two of those days are spent on the ship, gliding over the deep azure of the Aegean. One is spent on the back of a horse, overtop the hills and valleys of the roads leading to what should be his home. The sun is just setting on the third day when the city comes into view on the horizon. 

Patroclus stops just to see it, knowing that he should be feeling a sense of home upon seeing it, but instead the whole place feels foreign. Was he really gone for that long? Three months wasn’t a phenomenal amount of time, in the grand scheme of things. 

You are not meant to be here. His mother’s voice echoes as the memory stirs. Not here. Not in Opus.  

A pat to the back jolts him, which is followed by the gruff laughter of the man accompanying him. “She’s a sight for sore eyes, isn’t she?” 

Patroclus only manages an awkward laugh as the man rides on ahead of him. A moment later, Patroclus follows the man down the hill, and towards the city. 

The streets are busy when they enter the gates. Patroclus supposes that Opus’ armies will be sailing for Troy soon. Supplies sit outside of doorways, including boxes of rations and chests of armour and weapons. Vendors are loud while making last-minute sales to the soldiers, and women are seen buying and wearing sigils of protection, a pendant of Athena hanging from their necks. 

None stop him on the streets as he heads towards the palace. Maybe they do not recognize him due to the hair that’s grown more steadily on his face, or maybe they are too busy to take notice of anyone’s comings or goings from the city. 

Or maybe - and this is the option he should have considered from the beginning - he was forgotten about while he was away. He supposes this was more likely a scenario. A simple son from a simple queen did not warrant much attention. 

It stings a bit, as Patroclus is the prince, and he should have a more warm welcome than this from the people he would maybe govern one day, but he finds he does not mind. He walks down the streets of the city towards the palace instead, at his own leisure. 

The main hall is packed to the brim with food, canvas, and other necessities while the other side is filled with blades, spears, armours of various metals and plumed helms so magnificent Patroclus half wonders if the king raided the royal coffers for them. Servants are flying in and out of rooms carrying food and whatnot to add to the pile. Patroclus expertly weaves in and between them, and finds himself heading towards the courtyard. 

The dirt floors are lined with racks of spears and swords, spar sparring equipment littered on the ground forgotten next to the glittering spearheads in the sun. He goes to pick them up, as someone was bound to trip over them in their haste to prepare, if the hurry in the main hall was anything to go by. 

He reaches down, but is suddenly thrown to the ground in a heap, efficiently knocking the air from him as he hits the dirt. 

“Pat!” a familiar voice exclaims, the mass of limbs still holding him down. Patroclus, gasping for his missing air, squints against the sunlight to the person above him. 

“Get off me, Zee,” he says, shoving at the other boy’s shoulders to push him off of him. “I was only gone for three months! You’re acting like it’s been years,” he teases, getting to his feet. 

“Felt like it,” Xenokrates grins, rolling onto his feet as well. “It was so boring here without you! Absolutely nothing happened, I swear.” 

Patroclus only quirked a brow at him, adjusting his tunic and dusting the dirt off it. “Liar.” 

“I’m not lying!” Xenokrates protests, but the look on his face says otherwise. He’s waiting for Patroclus to ask. 

Patroclus only gives him a look. Xenokrates gives him an awkward grin. 

“Go ahead,” Patroclus sighs. 

Xenokrates beams, and is almost vibrating with excitement as he spares no details of the three months in Opus while Patroclus was away. How he attended the war council meetings with the highest-ranking men, how he trained with his division, and how he planned on leading them into battle. 

Patroclus listened with as much attention he could muster, feeding off of his friend’s excitement. He was right in his statement before: this must be what Xenokrates was made for, if his eagerness was anything to go by. 

“But what about you?” Xenokrates asks once he seems to have run out of stories to tell. “Did you find him?” 

Patroclus nods. “Eventually, yes.” 

Patroclus could practically see the stars in his friend’s eyes as he heard. “What’s he like? Can he actually fight that well? They’re already calling him aristos achaion, you know.” 

Aristos Achaion. Greatest of the Greeks. 

“I don’t know,” Patroclus answers, thinking back to his week on Skyros. “There wasn’t really anyone to spar with, just a bunch of girls, really. I didn’t see much.” 

But that wasn’t exactly true. He had seen the way Achilles had pulled the spear from the rack with the practiced ease of a soldier, but also with the grace and prowess of a hero of legend. There was no one to compare him to, not even Jason or Heracles were known for such grace. What he had told the prince before was the truest thing he had ever said. No one moves the way you do. 

But all in all, there wasn’t enough to tell Xenokrates. 

A man bustles into the courtyard before Xenokrates has the chance to ask for elaboration, knocking over a stack of shields in the process. “The king summons you to council, my lords,” he says. 

Xenokrates gives him a grin as the man rushes off. “Shall we go to council, my prince?” He teases with an exaggerated bow. Patroclus only shoves him in response. 

The table in the center of the council room is already full with occupants, and even then some of the men are standing along the walls. Patroclus and Xenokrates enter just as the king takes his seat at the head of the table, signalling the meeting’s beginning. 

And just for a moment, the king’s eyes meet his son’s from across the room, and Patroclus swears he sees the hint of a sneer at the sight.Perhaps he wished he died at sea, or - even better - he decided to desert during his search. A younger Patroclus might have shied away, but perhaps his father was right when he said you do not give things up so easily now as you once did. He meets his stare head on, and only glances away when the other man does first. 

The king clears his throat, gaining the attention of the men packed in the room, and the meeting begins. 

There is not much to talk about that Patroclus has not already guessed at. They will sail for Aulis at the end of the week, it seems as if Patroclus had arrived just in time. There will be fifteen boats that sail from the neighbouring kingdom’s dock. Five will carry supplies. Patroclus finds his own mind wandering as the king continues on with his monotone drawl. 

It seems like years later when the meeting finally comes to a close, when the air is stuffy and stale from all the men piled inside for such a long time. 

He is halfway out the door before a voice stops him. “Patroclus,” the king calls just as the other men leave the room. Patroclus stops, taking a moment to steel himself before he turns on his heel, facing the man on the other side of the room. 

“We leave in six days,” he says, standing behind his chair. 

“I heard.” 

The king does not respond right away, giving him a considering look. “I’ve yet to decide what to do with you. You are required to go, but cannot lead an army.” 

Patroclus knows he is not done, despite the momentary pause. “You cannot be a general… perhaps a captain? A lieutenant? Would that suit you?” 

Patroclus regards the other man with a cool stare. “What does it matter? Make me a footsoldier for all I care. I’m just as likely to die there than as a captain, in any case. It’s not like I’d be protected as the king’s son, correct?” 

The king frowns at his petulant tone, but ends up disregarding it. “I would, yes, but they all know I still have a son. I cannot place you so low, they’d regard me as weak.” 

Of course, Patroclus thinks. It all matters what they think of you.  

“But I must tell you now, Patroclus,” he continues, his frown turning to a glare of ice. “I care not what you think of me now, but you will not make a mockery of my name. This war is the one that will bring me fame. I will not have you stain it with your imbecility, do you understand?” 

Patroclus feels his hands tighten into a fist as words fly out of his mouth without thinking of them. “It does not matter. No matter what you or I do, they will never remember you in the end.” He does not need a dream or any other innate sense of knowledge to know this as fact. It does not take a stupid man to know that the king Menoitius of Opus is just like all the rest, and will not go down in history.

He sees the king’s jaw tense as the words leave his mouth and hover in the air, and Patroclus almost thinks he will swing at him. But he does not give the other man the chance, as he turns to leave the room, the door behind him shutting with a thump. 

~ 

Phthia never used to be as lonely as it is now, Achilles finds upon returning to his kingdom. He had the other boys who still practically worshipped the ground he walked on, yes, but it was not companionship. He had had the girls on Skyros, but now even they were gone, sheltered away on the craggy shores of the distant island, and Achilles is left alone. 

The day is ending, the wax of the candle dwindling as the sun sets, casting his too-empty room with the warm glow of the flame. Something in his chest aches to see it, tugging at some sort of memory or dream, and if he closes his eyes, if he concentrates, he can see it clearer. 

A tent, with another boy right beside him. His dark skin glows amber in the candle light, his eyes reflecting the color of honey. This is a dream he has often, of him with the other boy beside him. When Achilles sees him, it takes the ache away, and something seems to slot into place. 

He will go to Troy in a month’s time, just long enough for him to gather the men who will go with him and prepare all the needed accommodations for a long siege on the eastern city. 

The candle flutters, almost as if there is a breeze wafting through the room, but a figure appears in the corner, and Achilles knows it is just his mother. 

“Achilles,” she greets him. “You’ve decided towards Troy, then.” Her voice is devoid of anything that could give away her stance on the subject. Achilles would have guessed her to be upset at his choice, but her tone makes it difficult to tell. 

Still. She never came to visit him directly. Usually he would visit her by the sea, as she hated the hard earth that mortals lived on. The reason for her visit now must be important. “Is there something wrong, mother?” he asks. 

“I have brought you something,” is what she says instead, and it is only then when Achilles sees the glimmer of bronze placed in the corner of his room. 

“Armour for you, crafted by my kin. It should fit you now and later on during the war, despite how it might wear,” his mother tells him as he stands to inspect the armour himself. He picks up the shield first, watching the candlelight make the inscribed figure of a rising phoenix turn gold; almost as if the bird itself was on fire. His breastplate is similar, and his helmet is made of the same material as the rest, a bright red plume of dyed horse hair sitting on top of it. 

It is exceptional craftsmanship; better than the stuff Odysseus has presented with pride in Lycomedes’ hall. “It is beautiful,” he tells her, the shield light in his hands. “Thank you, mother.” 

She does not give him a smile of appreciation at the compliment, but then again, she rarely did in the first place. Her mouth is set in a thin line when she says, “It is imperative that only you wear it. No one else must put it on, for any reason.” 

Achilles finds himself frowning at this unusual request. It was unlikely for anyone to dare wear his armour, unless he gave an order to, but why would he in the first place? He sets the shield down, next to the rest. 

“Why not?” He asks. 

The straight line only widens, a look of both frustration and insistence passes along his mother’s face. “I cannot tell you. But you must listen to me anyway. Do not let anyone else wear it. Do you understand?” 

Do you understand? Achilles almost wants to give the armour away with the way she phrases the request. He nods his understanding anyway. “I will not.” 

“Swear it,” she says. 

Achilles falters at her demand. Gods did not make mortals promise anything, and Achilles himself was no exception to his divine mother. He glances at the armour sitting innocently in the corner of his room, wondering exactly what would drive his mother to make such a demand. 

“Swear it, Achilles,” she urges, her voice harsh and demanding, almost making Achilles jolt. 

“I swear it,” he says. 

His mother regards him for a moment, then retreats backwards to where she had previously stood. Achilles had not even noticed she had begun to loom over him when he did not answer her before. 

“That is not all,” she says after a moment. “There is a prophecy.” 

“Another one?” Achilles asks. He already knows the first one, everyone has told it to him since the moment he could walk. He knew he was destined for greatness, but that was for a man of only one prophecy. A man of two could either mean fame or terrible misfortune. 

“Yes. About your death. That the prince Hector of Troy will be the first to fall, and only then will you do so.” 

(There, that name again. Hector. Some sick sort of relief blooms in his chest when he hears the man will die, but Achilles knows in some deep part of his mind that it is not his fault. The hatred he instinctively feels for this unacquainted man is not wholly on the other’s part. 

But that makes no sense, because who else’s fault would it be? He does not want to think about it.) 

“Well,” Achilles says, finding his words coming slower than before. “That is easy then. If he is so skilled that only I could best him, then I simply won’t fight him. 

Why should he? Hector’s never done anything to him, after all. 

His mother’s eyes are cool and callous, boring into his own with a searching stare. They used to scare him as a child with how inhuman they looked; the sclera black as night and her pupil a jarring blue, pale as ice. He was told it was because she lived at the bottom of the sea, and her eyes had turned with the darkness she lived in. 

The moment passes, and the searching look on his mother’s face leaves. A blink, and she is gone, the only remnants of proof she was there sitting gleaming in the corner.

Chapter Text

Patroclus is watching the blue horizon of the Euboean coast pass swiftly underneath him when Aulis comes into sight after six days of sea travel. It comes into his sight suddenly, the jutting strip of land with a cliffside facing west, with sandy shores and lush glades of grass. Then, the pollution of ships crowding the shores, the beaches filled with men who were setting up tents. The noise of them could be heard from a mile away; they were all excited to get started with this war, their enthusiasm was as contagious as a plague. 

Xenokrates grins at the sight. He was practically hanging off the side of their ship as they neared closer to the beach, the rowers trying their best to maneuver between all the docked supplies ships from the other kingdoms. “Look at them, Pat! The beach is so crowded, I wonder if we’re even going to find a spot.” 

Patroclus cannot help but agree with his friend. His father had said that Agamemnon meant to unite all the kingdoms of Achaea as a united front against the Trojans. This was not just a war, nor was it just about a woman. This was a message to their eastern neighbours. All of Achaea was almost daring the other empires to challenge them and see what they would do in return. 

Patroclus and Xenokrates stepped on the sand of Aulis not soon after, following his father down the ranks of Achaeans towards a raised dais. Patroclus supposes that that was where the other kings were, and Opus would be expected to greet the commanders of this great army. 

Patroclus sees many soldiers as they pass through. Armour of Phoencian make, red-ribboned spears of the Spartans, and chariots inscribed with sigils from Aeolia. In the distance he sees the flags of yellow whorled with black from Ithaca across the tops of the tents. No doubt Odysseus had arrived earlier than most. 

They reached the dais in what seemed to be the center of the camp, different pathways all stemming from the circular center. On the dais stood a few men, looking down at Patroclus from where they stood. Patroclus knew then that these men were the kings that had meant to unite them. 

Agamemnon stood in the center; Patroclus recognized him vaguely from Tyndareus’ hall all those years ago, but there could have been no doubt as to his identity with how he carried himself. Tall, and built like an ox - broad shoulders with a certain stoutness to his stance - the worn king practically oozed an arrogance that could not lead to anywhere good. 

To his left stood Odysseus and Diomedes, of whom Patroclus was already unfortunately acquainted. To his right stood Menelaus, who’s copper hair shone brighter than his brother’s. He was supposed to be the jilted husband, but it was hard to tell as his eyes surveyed the mass of men that had gathered to fight for her rescue.He did not recognize any of the other men on the dias, but the only other one he could name with surety was Nestor with his white, wispy beard and eyes glazed with age. He would be here for council, and nothing more. 

“Welcome to Aulis, Menoitius,” Agamemnon calls, causing some of the surrounding men to stop and watch the proceedings. Many kings and princes had already arrived with their contribution to the mass army; Menoitius would not cause much notice with his arrival. 

Menoitius unsheathes the blade at his hip, and places it on the ground before him and the kings of Achaea before kneeling before it. The other advisors from Opus do the same, and Patroclus realizes that they are to swear an act of fealty, as he supposes most of the kings here have already done. He and Xenokrates kneel on the dirt as well. 

Agamemnon is smirking with something Patroclus can only label as gratuitous when they rise, pleased that another kingdom has sworn themselves to the purpose of the war. “I thank Opus for your humble contribution,” he says, making Menoitius frown. He knows that many others had brought more; men, ships, gold and treasures and armouries. Patroclus is sure that what they have in comparison is almost inconsequential. “You will find that there are only a few spaces left to make camp. You are free to choose whatever remains.” 

And with that, the innermost circle of the Achaean kings disperse, leaving the men from Opus standing before the dais. Even the common soldiers have already started to disperse, paying them no more mind than before. 

Menoitius huffs with something akin to frustration before leading the rest of his men away from the dais with a gesture. They would need to set up camp before sundown, even if they were only staying for a few days while the rest of the kingdoms gathered.They would not be waiting long, Opus itself was already late by a week in their arrival. 

They set up their temporary camp near a treeline on the outermost reaches of the rest of the encampment. The sun is starting to dip into the sea when they finally have their tents set up, and Patroclus and Xenokrates take a moment to admire the ship-invested shores of Aulis, the sunset glittering over the azure bay. 

“How many do you think there are?” Xenokrates asks, breaking the moment of comfortable silence. 

“I don’t know,” Patroclus replies, eyes skimming over the ships as if he could count them. It would prove fruitless; counting the endless amount of ships around the bay would be about as useful as counting the stars in the sky. “Two hundred. Maybe three.” 

Xenokrates breathes out a snort-like sound of amusement. “No way, they stretched all the way down the beach. There’s gotta be at least a thousand.” 

Patroclus let out a small chuckle at that. “The poets would love that. The face that launched a thousand ships. ” 

Xenokrates turns to him with a grin. “And how would you know what the poets are saying these days?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Patroclus teases back. “I’m the greatest poet that’s ever lived, obviously.” 

“Oh yeah?” Xenokrates challenges. “Then how come I haven’t heard any of your verses yet, O’ Great Poet ?” 

“I have plenty of verses, they’re just not ready to be heard by human ears, is all,” Patroclus plays along with a grin. “I made Aphrodite weep with them once, so who knows how you - a mere mortal - would react.” 

Xenokrates hums, crossing his arms. “I think I can handle it.” 

Patroclus only laughs, but Xenokrates stands there, waiting. Patroclus shakes his head. “Seriously?” 

“I’m waiting... “ His mock-impatience is added with the tapping of his foot against the ground, which Patroclus thinks is a nice touch. 

Patroclus huffs a curse under his breath, thinking of something completely horrible to pass off as a poem to make his friend laugh, and looks out to the sunset glittering over the sea, painting both the sky and the water beneath it oranges and reds. 

“There once was a maiden fair,” Patroclus starts, his voice deepening to imitate that of a bard telling a story. Xenokrates grins at his tone, but does not laugh. “Who’s like golden sunlight, was her hair.” 

“That makes no sense,” Xenokrates comments. 

“Shut up. Working in her fields to meet, Her lover who ever did retreat.” 

Xenokrates snorts at that verse, most likely due to how bad Patroclus really was at poetry. 

“But meet her love she never did, for from her sight he always hid,” Patroclus continues, but stops short when the next fake-verse does not come as easily. 

He’d been picturing a blonde girl with hair as golden as sunlight, but the image changed as he spoke. Golden hair in candlelight, between his fingers like liquid sunlight, and bright green eyes that always bored into his own. The next words come to him as if in a dream. 

“But never did she worry, for she would always know him,” he says, dropping the performative tone he had used. Tanned skin like freshly-pressed olives, and bare soles that blurred against sand in front of him. 

“By touch alone, by smell, she would know him blind.” Bright eyes in the rose-quartz cave. Swimming in the river after lessons. 

“By the way his breath came, the way his feet struck the earth.” The steady breath on the back of his neck, wrapped up in the other boy’s arms. 

“And in death. At the end of the world.” Blood everywhere, staining his clothes, his hair, his skin. The scent of burning ships and the screams of dying men. 

Xenokrates is no longer grinning when he looks up at him again, the playful look gone replaced with a frown of concern. They both seem to know that something odd happened during their game, but neither wanted to be the first to bring it up. Patroclus coughs awkwardly around the sudden silence. 

Xenokrates eyes him carefully for a moment, as if deciding what to say. Would he address it? Or would he brush it off, sensing that the answer would not be a simple one?

“That last part didn’t really rhyme.” 

Patroclus shoves him playfully. Brushing it off, then. 

The light of day is dying when they head back to their part of the camp, red skies giving way for blue and black. Xenokrates bids him a goodnight before ducking into his own tent, and Patroclus does the same, closing the fabric flaps and tying them tight with leather strips. 

He does not sleep right away, instead staring up at the fabric ceiling from his pallet. 

Patroclus had never thought much of them before, the memories that had never happened. He never told Xenokrates, nor his father, and his mother could hardly have been expected to understand - given her mental state. But none of those images before had been as clear as the ones that evening. They were not just daydreams or a product of a vivid imagination, Patroclus is sure. Those were memories. They must be. 

Do you ever feel like you’re missing someone, but you don’t know who? He always saw the same person. The same golden hair and green eyes. 

But why? Why could he not remember?

Patroclus can hear the other men wander around the camp with the stars overhead, heading to their own tents to rest after a long day of sailing. Patroclus ought to do the same, the events of the day suddenly catching up with him. 

He rolls on to his side on the pallet, and hopes he does not dream. 

~ 

It is three weeks later when he hears it. The men yelling with excitement from the camp, coming from the center, leading towards the beachy shores. It has been nearly a month since the army from Opus arrived in Aulis, and even then they were later than expected. They should’ve left for Troy weeks ago, but there was still one mass of men that Agamemnon was waiting for: the Myrmidons. 

Ant-men. From Phthia. Patroclus was not certain on the meaning of their title, and neither did anyone else seem to. 

A horn blew just as Patroclus exited his tent, seeing men from all over the camp head towards the small port they had made on the shores. 

“What is it?” Patroclus calls as he sees Xenokrates rush past. The other boy turns to him with a grin. 

“The Phthians are here!” 

The small make-shift port is crowded with men when Patroclus gets there, all of their heads turned to the ships making their way towards the shores. Spartans, Mycenaeans, and Argives alike all search the ships with looks of wondrous anticipation on their faces. 

Then, by a signal that Patroclus just misses, they start to chant. All twenty-five hundred of them in unison. It sounds more like a clap of thunder than a chant, and Patroclus wonders if Troy can hear them from here, given their volume. A-chill-es! A-chill-es! 

The ships come closer, the men’s chanting becoming so loud they may as well be a thunderstorm; their voices are as feverish and electrified as Zeus’ thunderbolt. The gangplank is lowered, and the chants turn to gasps as a figure stands on the edge, turning quickly to cheers.

A voice calls from the ship, hands cupped around his mouth in an attempt to drown out the thunder of the men. “Prince Achilles, son of King Peleus and the goddess Thetis. Aristos Achaion!” 

Then, almost like an answer from the heavens above, sunlight pours from the sky, and that is when Patroclus sees him. The prince stood at the top of the ship overtop the crowds, the sunlight turning him shining gold, his tunic so white it was almost blinding. His hair is like fire on top of his head. 

Patroclus sees him, and cannot turn his head away. This was him in all his glory - Aristos Achaion. This godliness - this surely is what he was made for; there could be nothing greater than this. 

The crowd parts for him as he walks towards the dais, a look of both shock at the praise and wonder on his face. Perhaps he did not expect this reaction, but was glad to receive it in any case. Patroclus and Xenokrates are pushed with the crowd, all the men eager to hear Agamemnon greet him. They had stalled their trip for him, and were eager to see if he had been worth the wait. 

Agamemnon’s back had straightened as he watched the young prince approach from the parting crowds. The other kings had gathered around; Odysseus, Diomedes, Menelaus - even Nestor and his son Antilochus had come to see him. 

Agamemnon steps forward as soon as the prince is close enough, his hands open expectantly in a welcoming gesture. This is where Achilles would bow to him, offering not only his service for the extent of the war, but also his loyalty. 

But he does not. He does not even call out to the other man in a greeting, or even an acknowledgment. The shores seem to grow quiet as he stands tall, his chin raised with pride. 

“What is he doing?” Xenokrates whispers to Patroclus in between the men. Agamemnon’s jaw seems to tighten with a look quickly turning to a glare as he is not received as expected. He is the leader of this army, he deserves an amount of fealty no matter who comes to him - even if that person is Aristos Achaion. 

“What does it look like?” Patroclus whispers back as the rest of the men seem to hold their breaths. The message is plain - you do not command me. 

It is only when Odysseus moves forward to intervene does Achilles speak, his melodic voice seeming to carry through the whole camp. 

“I am Achilles, son of Peleus, god-born, best of the Greeks,” he says. “I have come to bring you all victory.” 

There is a brief moment of silence as his words wash over the sea of men, and then the roar of their approval, shouting and chanting aristos achaion like waves crashing onto the shore. Greatest of the Greeks , he was a hero already. And heroes were seldom humble. Patroclus should not have expected any less. 

He frowns anyway. This is not the boy he’d come to know on Skyros. 

The rest of the words are lost to Patroclus, the cheers not dying as the other man spoke. By the way Agamemnon frowns at the prince’s reply tells him it is most likely more of the same. At least one thing they would have in common would be pride. 

The crowds of men start to disperse once the other kings have left the dais, leaving Achilles with a smug look and Agamemnon with his fists clenched. Patroclus watches as the older man stalks away to his part of the encampment and an older man from Phthia gestures in the opposite direction to the prince. 

Achilles glances that way, and his eyes meet Patroclus’ - bright green and suddenly full both with recognition and shock. He gives Patroclus a small smile from across the yard, but Patroclus does not return it. With a hard look, he turns away, and does not see the way the prince’s smile drops with a hint of confusion. 

Xenokrates walks with him back to the camp. 

“So?” He starts. “What do you think? First impressions?” 

“I’ve met him before, Zee.” 

Xenokrates huffs with something akin to exasperation. “I mean now, that whole thing with Agamemnon. ‘Cause - and this is just me - I got a bad feeling from him, y’know?” 

Patroclus hardly recognized the boy he saw before all those kings. All the other kings and princes had sworn their fealty, even though they were prideful in their own right. His father was the most prideful and self-absorbed man he’d ever known, and even he had bowed before the commander. “I agree.” 

Xenokrates gives him a look of shock at his words, but recovers quickly. “We should maybe stay out of his way, yeah?” 

Patroclus only nods, and continues on to their camp. 

~ 

Dawn is just about to break on the shores of Aulis when Achilles goes to visit his mother. She was accustomed to the deep, where the light did not touch, and so preferred to speak under the cover of darkness. 

“How did they react?” She asks him. The waves gently lapped at her feet, her hair trailing wet down her back into the water and swirling like seaweed. He sat on the beach, toes digging into the wet sand. 

“It was as you said,” he replies, eyes fixed on the water advancing and retreating in a continuous cycle. “They cheered my name until their voices went hoarse.” 

It is what his mother had said; you are Aristos Achaion, and they will give you your glory. It was true. They had known who he was even before his ship docked the beach, and had all gasped his name with a sort of reverence as he walked through the camp. He would not be surprised if they built shrines on the very ground he walked on, with the way they received him. 

But through all this time, through all the screams of praise he’d received that afternoon, the ache in his chest does not recede. 

“Is there something wrong?” She asks him as she watches how he does not take such subjects with enthusiasm. 

“That’s not all, is it? The men today, that’s not what you mean by glory, is it?” He asks, because surely it cannot be. He gains no satisfaction from the men screaming his name with triumph, and since he was promised glory, surely there must be more. 

There is a moment before his mother responds. “No. This is just the beginning. Your true purpose will be fulfilled when you reach Troy.” 

They will go to Troy tomorrow, once the sun rises. The men have been camped here for far too long - so Agamemnon says - and cannot wait any longer to sail. Achilles supposes he will see then, and perhaps there the ache will start to lessen. 

Dawn begins to rise then, Helios beginning his ascent from the horizon, painting the sky in rose-gold. His mother would want to bid her farewells now, before the sun has fully risen. 

“There is one thing more,” she says instead, causing Achilles to look up at her, questioning. 

“Your wife bears a son,” she says, and Achilles flinches a little to hear it. “Neoptolemus is his name. Called Pyrrhus.” 

“She is not my wife, mother,” he says, his voice sounding more tense than he’d like. 

“She is. I married you two.” 

“I never asked for that,” he bites back, almost glaring at her. 

His mother regards him for a cool moment, as if she is trying to decide whether this fight is one she wants to participate in. “It does not matter now,” she decides. “You have your heir, and so your legacy is assured. You’re welcome.” 

She returns to the sea before he can reply, leaving her son on the wet sand of Aulis, dawn’s light painting the sky pink. 

You’re welcome, she’d said, her voice as detached as the day he was born. As if he should be thanking her. He can feel his eyes start to water as the thoughts of those nights creep their way back into his head, and wants to scream scream scream until the feel of the princess finally leaves. 

He does not know how much time has passed before the sun is fully in the sky, bringing a sticky heat with it. There is no wind, the breeze of yesterday that brought him here has fled. Troy is far away, and not even the strongest men have the stamina to bring a thousand ships that far. 

They will not sail to Troy today.

Chapter Text

The sea is the best discovery that Patroclus has made in his life, he thinks. He never had it growing up, never even saw the large expanse when he was a child, and had never learned to swim on top of it. He figures now is the best time to learn, while they wait on the shores of Aulis. It is the only thing on this cursed beach that doesn't burn. 

The morning after the Phthians arrived, the air grew heavy and hot. The sun bore down on them with an unrelenting fury. The wind ceased altogether; not even a small breeze came to offer a relief. The sand seemed to burn, and the heat had even begun to scorch the soles of the men’s sandals if they stayed too long in one spot. 

The heat is particularly vicious this afternoon, even more so than it usually is when the sun is at its peak. Patroclus sinks further into the water, only to find that it has seemed to warm under the sun as well. It is not as hot as the sand, but it is not as cool as it usually is.

It has been a week and a half since the wind has vanished, and another day of their voyage delayed has the men start to tense. They were all promised Troy, and their mood does not improve when Agamemnon announces that they will have to delay another day. Just until the wind returns, he says. Then we will leave. 

But Patroclus hears the men whispering already. 

“‘Just another day’ my ass. We can definitely row our way to Troy; I know I would! There’s gotta be another reason why he wants to delay.” 

“I think he’s just scared. All bark and no bite, that’s all he is. He talks all big and fancy about sacking Troy, but he doesn’t do anything about this damn wind!” 

“Just sulking in his tent, claiming to be hashing out a solution. Sounds like dogshit to me, he’s just biding his time, I’ll betcha any money.” 

These were not kind words towards their commander. They might turn to mutiny later on, if taken any further. But Patroclus knew it was partly due to the heat; the men couldn’t sleep in it while the hot sand chafed everywhere through the night. 

Patroclus rises from the water, slicking his hair away from his face when he sees that he is not alone in his mid-afternoon swim. 

The first thing he sees is gold. Hair the color of sunlight, and tanned, golden skin emerging from the water not far away from himself. The clear water runs down his back in rivulets, and Patroclus’ eyes watch them race down the gold expanse of skin, unable to pull his gaze away.

The prince turns around, his green eyes lighting up in something akin to amusement when he realizes Patroclus is staring. Patroclus looks away then, feeling a furious flush rush to his face. He sinks back into the cooler water. 

The prince is still there when he rises for air a minute or so later, his eyes fixed on him. Patroclus almost huffs aloud as he wipes the water from his eyes. Fine, he thinks. I’ll bite. 

“Prince Achilles,” he greets from across the water, pushing his dripping hair from his face once again. 

“Patroclus,” the prince says back, and Patroclus is a little shocked that he even remembered his name in the first place. The way he says it is so careful, not the way others usually stumbled around it or rushed through it. Pa-tro-clus. 

Patroclus supposes they would leave it at that; he had nothing to say to the other boy, really, and what would aristos achaion have to say to him, inconsequential as he is? 

But that does not happen. “I- uh... “ the prince says, Patroclus giving him a curious glance when his words stumble. “What are you doing here?” 

Patroclus probably does huff then. “Same as you, prince. Swimming; or, at least, trying to.” 

“You don’t have to call me that,” he says, green eyes boring into Patroclus’ own. “My name is Achilles.” 

Patroclus gives him a nod, running his name through his head experimentally. A-chill-es. It is a name meant to be shouted with victory. A name meant for a hero. 

“Why?” Achilles asks just as Patroclus starts to leave, wading into shallower waters. This time Patroclus really does give him a curious look. “Why’s today a good day to swim, I mean.” 

“Have you noticed how hot it is?” Patroclus asks, mildly annoyed. “The water is the only relief anyone can get.” 

Achilles seems to contemplate this, almost as if he hadn’t noticed the burning hot air that has plagued the camp for almost two weeks. “I could talk to my mother about it, perhaps.” 

The curious look turns to one of confusion. “Why is your mother here?” 

“She is always here,” Achilles says plainly, as if this should have been known. He gestures towards the waters, farther out where many of the boats have been anchored. “She might know why the wind has left. I could ask her, if you want.” 

Patroclus glances out towards the sea, not understanding. “What?” 

“She is a goddess,” Achilles states. 

Patroclus can’t seem to find a worthy enough reply. He doesn’t know whether to call him crazy or fall to his feet. Of course he is god-born, he thinks. No one could move like that and still be fully mortal. 

But that’s not necessarily the point. 

“It’s been almost two weeks,” Patroclus tells him. “And you’re saying now that you know a way to help?” Patroclus thinks of the way he casually mentioned the intense heat, and how the other boy did not seem to notice. 

Achilles still has enough dignity to look at least a little embarrassed at Patroclus’ tone. “I did not think that it was my problem to solve.” 

It was true, technically. Agamemnon was the commander of the army, and he wasn’t exactly quiet about it. He should have been the one to come up with a solution, but all he did was sulk in his tent trying to avoid heatstroke. Still, the way Achilles words it sparks a new sense of annoyance. 

“We are Achaea united, Achilles. Do not think only of yourself,” Patroclus all but hisses out, turning away to wade his way back to the beach. He misses the way Achilles reaches out towards him when he leaves, a decidedly guilty look on his face. 

~

It is almost three days later when Xenokrates decides to set up a wrestling competition for the men. With the tension running through the camp, the men grumbling about Agamemnon and his slow enthusiasm to solve their problem, brawls had already broken out over the smallest of slights. 

“We need to do something,” Xenokrates had told him one night, as the sun was setting while the heat of the day remained. “They’ll start killing each other out there if this goes on any longer, with how antsy they are.” 

Patroclus had agreed. Even he himself could feel his patience begin to wear. “What do you suggest?” 

Xenokrates had been quiet as he thought for an answer. Then, after a moment, his face had lit up with the tell-tale signs of an idea. “I’ve got it! If the men want to fight, let’s give them a fight!” 

A small circle in the middle of the agora had been made, several men from the Opus army stamping down the dirt and grass until it was flat. The rules were like that of any wrestling match during the games. The first man’s back to touch the ground lost (because no man wanted to be injured enough to be unable to fight when they finally sailed to Troy), and the next competitor would challenge the winner. 

It started as a matter of entertainment. Xenokrates was most likely the most skilled fighter from Opus, and the men were eager to try their hand at besting the over-confident sixteen-year-old general. It then quickly became a matter of pride when each man lost quickly - sometimes in under a minute. 

Crowds quickly formed around the make-shift arena, man after man getting in line to try their luck against Xenokrates. The other boy, sweating under the bright noon sun, took on each man with an almost predatory grin. Patroclus contented himself to watch as the crowds started to cheer on the competitors. 

Xenokrates’ idea had worked, much to Patroclus’ delight. The men were no longer talking about the laziness of their commander, but instead were animatedly speaking of strategies as to how to catch the boy off guard. He could feel the tension start to ease ever so slightly as the day went on. 

Patroclus was tossing pomegranate seeds into his mouth from his perch on the dias when another man is sent tumbling to the ground. It is then when he sees a flash of golden hair from the sidelines. He watches Achilles cock his head at the scene, observing the crowds and exactly what the cause could be for their apparent excitement. 

But Patroclus is not the only one to notice him. 

Xenokrates’ toothy grin recedes for a brief moment when he catches sight of the prince, but he quickly recovers. There is something different about the way he stands and straightens his back, a sardonic grin replacing the carefree one he wore only moments ago. 

“Prince Achilles!” He calls out over top of the men, whose cheering begins to quiet when they realize aristos achaion is here. The crowds part to reveal him, glancing between both him and Xenokrates, eager to watch the scene develop. 

“Care to join us?” He asks with a show, his chin raised high as he addresses the other man. The men that circle the make-shift arena grin with the thought. They’d all heard of aristos achaion and his famed skills with combat. But none had seen it before, and were eager to see him in action. 

Achilles glances upwards to where Patroclus is seated, a motion so quickly everyone misses it, except for Patroclus himself. Patroclus leans forward from his seat ever so slightly, eyeing the prince across the agora. 

“I would not want to intrude on someone else’s turn,” he says after a deciding moment, and Patroclus wonders if he is replaying the words he may have unwisely snapped at him. Do not think only of yourself. Achilles knows he would win. He is not called the Greatest of the Greeks for nothing, after all. 

Xenokrates only lets out a scoff. “What are you, scared?” 

Before, Patroclus sat amused as the scene played out, but now all traces of amusement have left. Achilles had shown when he arrived the amount of his honour. It was not wise to insult him. 

(He sees, in a flash, a result of something. Something related to pride, but it is not the rushing red-hot anger he feels. It is silent, cold, and grave. There are screams in the distance, but they are so much louder in the angry silence that suffocates him.) 

Achilles frowns, but does not take the bait. He regards Xenokrates from across the way for a moment, perhaps judging if this conflict was worth the effort. “I would not wish to have anyone hurt before we sail,” he says after an agonizing moment. 

At this, a sharp laugh is punched out of Xenokrates. “Hurt? You don't wish to 'hurt' us?” He exclaims. “I’ll tell you what, Pelides,” he says, stalking closer with a challenging grin on his face. “I don’t think you can.” 

Patroclus drops the now-forgotten pomegranate in his hand, and he can almost hear the rest of the men inhale sharply. 

“We all call you aristos achaion but no one has ever seen you actually fight, isn’t that right? How do we know you even can?” 

Patroclus sees Achilles’ eyes narrow and fists clench at his sides. This is madness, he thinks. 

“Zee!” He tries, calling across the agora to try and get his friend’s attention, having no wish to witness the other boy’s imminent death, but either Xenokrates does not hear him or ignores him outright. 

“So? What do you say?” 

There is a brief moment of complete silence, Xenokrates mocking grin met with Achilles’ careful silence. Patroclus is practically hanging off the side of the dais watching the event unfold, wanting to know if he could make it to the two fast enough before Xenokrates inevitably beaten to a pulp. He deserved much worse for his mockery than just that, even. 

But nothing happens. Achilles seems to know that the other boy is not worth the trouble. He turns and begins to walk away from the agora, his fists still clenched at his sides. Patroclus sighs in relief at the sight. 

But the Fates have an odd sense of humour, he supposes. 

Xenokrates barks out a laugh as Achilles turns away. “Coward!” He calls out after him. 

Gods damnit, Zee, Patroclus thinks. 

Xenokrates already has his fists raised with a grin when Achilles meets him in the make-shift arena. Xenokrates opens his mouth to make another remark, probably one of a taunting nature, but does not have a chance. 

Patroclus does not even see him move, that is how fast it happens. In a blur, Achilles is upon him, and Xenokrates curses as he tries his best to block and duck out of his way. But he does not make it. With a sweep of the leg so quickly it blurs through the air, Xenokrates is sent tumbling to the ground face-first. 

But his back does not touch. Achilles grabs his arm before he can rise to his feet, pinning him to the grass, a knee pressing into his back to hold him still. “Yield,” he says, twisting Xenokrates’ arm behind his back. Xenokrates does not, instead kicking at Achilles’ legs in a futile attempt. It is embarrassing, Patroclus thinks. There’s no way he could ever reach at that angle. 

Achilles twists harder, pressing Xenokrates further into the soil. “Yield,” he demands, his tone harshening as Xenokrates continues to struggle. 

Xenokrates lets out an involuntary cry of pain when he twists his arm harder, refusing to yield himself out of embarrassment. Patroclus, watching from the dais, flinches at the sound. 

And then, just as suddenly as it happened, Achilles lets go and steps away, and Patroclus looks at him only to meet the other boy’s eyes from across the agora. 

Xenokrates is panting a little as Achilles steps away, his face covered with dirt from when his face was forced into it. Patroclus expects the other boy to simply walk away; he has proven himself, after all. He does not even look winded at the exertion. 

But instead, he offers a hand to Xenokrates to help him to his feet. “Do not go so easy on me next time,” he says with a smug grin, earning himself a sharp glare from the other boy.

It is then when Patroclus jumps down from the end of the dais, taking Xenokrates’ arm to lead him back to their camp before he does any more damage. 

“What was that?” Patroclus demands once they are behind the walls of their tent, back in the Opian part of camp. 

“Don’t know what you mean,” Xenokrates deflects, wincing as he rolls his shoulder - the same one Achilles had twisted behind his back. Patroclus wouldn’t be surprised if it was dislocated. 

“Here,” Patroclus says, exasperated, gesturing at the arm Xenokrates had started cradling. With a swift moment, Patroclus jerks the injured arm upwards, hearing the joint fall back into place with an audible pop, causing Xenokrates to yelp with the sudden spark of pain. 

“What was that for?” He exclaims as Patroclus rips off a bit of fabric from a spare tunic, handing it to the other boy. 

“Your shoulder was dislocated, and now it isn't. You’ll need a sling for a week or so. You’re welcome.” 

Patroclus is fixed with a glare while Xenokrates wraps and ties the fabric around his other shoulder, resting the tender arm in it. “Thanks,” he huffs. 

“So,” Patroclus starts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Care to explain what that was all about?” 

Xenokrates only shrugged with his good shoulder. “Just some friendly competition.” 

Patroclus scoffs at the absurdity of that statement. “Bullshit, we all saw you taunting him beforehand.” 

Xenokrates only rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. It was just some banter, okay? Had to get him to agree somehow.” 

“ Why though?”

“... C’mon, Pat. Who doesn’t want to fight the almighty aristos achaion?” 

Trying to talk to him was like trying to scold the ocean for sinking your ship. Utterly pointless. 

“Okay, fine,” Patroclus concedes, not wanting to argue in a circle while missing the point. “But you didn’t have to make him angry! I halfway thought he was gonna kill you, Zee!” 

Patroclus is met not only with a glare, but a look of hurt. “He’s not all that high-and-mighty, Pat.” 

“And is that what you meant to do? Show everyone else that you’re better than him?” 

“Not everyone, just you,” Xenokrates bites back, his voice dropping with a glare. 

Patroclus is left floundering for a reason behind his words. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

It takes Xenokrates a moment to reply, seeming to choose his words before letting them fly in the air. “He’s not a good person, Pat. I don’t know what it is you think of him, but I won’t let you get hurt because of him.” 

Patroclus returns the glare as his words register. He’s reminded of the boy in Opus who wanted his dice, and how Xenokrates had decided he needed protection. 

“I don’t need you to protect me, Zee.” Patroclus bites back. The air in the tent is hot and stifling, Patroclus realizes. He brushes past his friend, no longer able to even stand to look at him and his accusive face. 

~ 

It is two days later when Achilles learns that a slight towards the goddess Artemis is what is causing the wind’s disappearance, and a week after that when Agamemnon calls him to his tent for a discussion, just after the sun has set and the dinner tables have been cleared away. 

Finally, Achilles thinks as he trudges through the camp. Finally, we will sail for Troy. 

He has heard from a few of the other kings what Agamemnon plans to do. A sacrifice - not quite a hecatomb, but close enough to it - followed by a banquet in the goddess’ name. His daughter, Iphigenia, was a priestess of Artemis, and would be coming to Aulis in a day’s time to join the event, hopefully soothing the scorned goddess’ temper. 

But there could be more. Agamemnon did not tell him these details himself - he was still irritated by Achilles’ display when he arrived to Aulis  for that. Perhaps he was being summoned now to be made known of some important detail. After all, he was technically a commander of the army. 

Agamemnon is seated when Achilles is let in, Odysseus to his right and Menelaus to his left. They skip right past any sort of pleasantries when Agamemnon opens his mouth to speak. 

“I have a proposition for you,” He says. 

Good, Achilles thinks. The king of Agamemnon is a proud man, and would not ask for help unless he was desperate for it. This is something he can owe me for later.  

“I’m sure you’ve heard of my daughter, Iphigenia.” 

Achilles nods. She had just turned fourteen, if he was not mistaken. 

“I would wish her for your wife.” 

It takes a moment for the king’s words to register. His mouth opens, but no words come out. Odysseus mistakes this reaction. 

“It is a great honour we offer you, prince,” Odysseus adds from the right, and Achilles can only nod his acknowledgement. 

The smoke from put out candles. The scent of lavender. 

“I, yes. I know, and I thank you for the offer,” he says, stumbling to find words in a rare case of clumsiness. “Is she not a priestess?” 

The priestesses of Artemis were notoriously fickle in their ways. Many of them did not take husbands at all. It was a better excuse than the first reason that came to mind. She’s barely fourteen. 

“We believe it was Artemis herself that requested the marriage,” Agamemnon counters, taking a sip from a cup of wine. 

The marriage. Not a marriage. 

Achilles can almost feel his mother scorching the back of his head with her stare. “It would only be for one night, unfortunately,” Odysseus says. “But much can happen in a night, so I would not worry.” 

Achilles does not answer right away. Any other man would jump at the opportunity. Glory at Troy and a beautiful wife, gaining the favour of the commander of the strongest army in Achaea? Achilles had wronged Agamemnon before, and now there is a chance to make peace - at least relative peace - with the other man. 

Skin that was too soft, surrounding him without cease. Lavender lavender lavender. 

His mother’s voice saying: it is for the best, Achilles. 

“I would be honoured to call her my wife,” he says, hoping that his voice does not crack as he speaks. 

Agamemnon gives him a tight smile, one only of agreement, and nods a dismissal. Achilles takes a discarded cup of wine when he leaves, only dribbles left at the bottom. That way, as he feels the sick burning it’s way up his throat, the men will think he only drank too much.

Chapter Text

The first ship from Mycenae comes about two hours before the second - which would carry the princess and her wedding procession. Fifty men came bearing a tent of fine fabric, chests carrying both the gold the princess would wear during the ceremony and that of a portion of her dowry - all of which Clytemnestra had sent for her daughter’s impending marriage. The men of the camp watched with eyes both of amusement and greed as they saw the fifty men setting up the tents, hanging up the fine indigo tapestries fringed with gold. 

It would be a wedding they would talk about for years to come; something to remember while they were at war. If the ceremony was to be as spectacular as the materials suggested, then surely the celebration afterward would be practically legendary. 

Achilles and Iphigenia, Patroclus muses. It was not a match he thought would have been suggested, but he supposes they are both young and powerful, coming from families of famous heritage. Aristos Achaion and the Princess of Mycenae. Somehow, he could not see it. 

Then again, he’d never had the pleasure of meeting the young princess, so perhaps that fact had something to do with it. 

The whole camp buzzed with excitement as the wedding delegation set up their decorations in the agora, near the makeshift temple used for worship. Even some of the kings were excited for the ceremony; finally something to take their minds off the missing wind! 

Except for Agamemnon himself. Patroclus watched as the men went and congratulated him on his daughter’s impending marriage, but his thanks were unenthusiastically given. He kept glancing at the waters of the Euboean coast, wringing his hands as his eyes scanned the horizon. It was not a nervous sort of excitement that Patroclus sensed, but a type of anxiety laced with dread. 

Nothing good could come out of it. 

Xenokrates had not taken Patroclus’ concern with much weight. “He’s giving his daughter away, Pat,” he’d said. “Of course he’d be nervous.” 

“It’s more than that, something bad’s going to happen when she comes, I can feel it.” Patroclus had countered.

“I think that something bad’s going to happen if you stay in the sun much longer.” At that, Xenokrates had handed him a cup filled nearly to the brim. “Stay hydrated, will you?” 

Achilles would know something, surely. He was the one marrying the princess after all, so he must know. 

Patroclus finds him near the beach once again, this time sitting in the sand with the waves lapping at his feet instead of fully submerged like the last time. This is preferred; Patroclus doesn’t particularly want to go for a swim anyway. 

“Achilles,” he greets as he approaches the other boy. Achilles glances upwards, and smiles when he sees Patroclus. 

“Patroclus,” he returns, the name spilling from his mouth like honey. “How are you?” 

“I am well,” he responds before presenting a small bowl filled with figs from behind his back. “I was wondering if you’d like some figs?” 

Patroclus watches the other boy’s face light up at the sight of the familiar fruit, a full grin replacing the somber look he previously wore. He reaches up and takes one, eyeing it with glee before taking a bite. 

“Where did you find these?” He asks. After all, figs were more of a luxury fruit in these lands -  especially during a time of war. 

“They came with the ship with the wedding preparations,” Patroclus says, noticing how Achilles’ grin lessens ever so slightly at the news. “I figured you might like some.” 

Only because he had picked figs to juggle all those years ago, in the marketplace as children. It wasn’t much to go off of, really, but Patroclus didn’t really know Achilles that well, and had needed something to explain his impromptu visit. Given the prince’s reaction, he had made a correct assumption, in any case. 

“Ah,” is all Achilles says, opting to take another bite of the fig in place of a true response, amber juice running down his fingers. 

“Congratulations, by the way,” Patroclus offers, grabbing a fig of his own. “On your upcoming nuptials. I’m sure she will make a fine wife.” 

Achilles does not respond right away, making a face as he takes another bite of his fig; almost as if the fruit had suddenly gone sour. It is not unlike the look he wore during his time on Skyros whenever the princess Deidameia was mentioned. 

“Agamemnon thinks a wedding will appease the goddess,” he says after a long moment, staring out at the sea once again. Patroclus does not know what he is searching for, but he has a distinct feeling that he’s hoping not to see the princess’s ship appearing over the horizon. 

“What do you think?” Patroclus asks, setting the bowl of figs down between them to take a seat in the sand. 

“I think it is a trick,” Achilles replies. 

“A trick?” 

“I don’t know.” 

There is a moment of silence, and Achilles is tossing the half-eaten fig mindlessly between his hands, just as he might be tossing words through his mind. “I have dreams, sometimes, but they don’t feel like dreams. They’re almost like… memories.” 

Patroclus almost loses his breath when he hears it. Do you ever feel like someone’s missing but you don’t know who? For some reason, this revelation makes perfect sense. 

“Something happens, but I don’t know what. It’s not good, whatever it is. I can feel it.” 

Patroclus cannot find words worthy enough for a reply, and instead takes a bite from a fig he brought with him. 

“Agamemnon knows something, I think,” Patroclus says. “I was wondering if you might know.” 

Achilles does not look at him when he says: “I do not.” 

They sit for a moment and watch the sea, searching for ships over the horizon as the tide carries the beach over their feet.  Patroclus turns to watch him, to see if his eyes betray any sense of falsehood in his words - many princes often do, in his own personal experience. 

But there is none. Not a single trace of dishonesty - or even omission - in the gold flecks in his eyes, or the light spray of freckles over his nose, or the pink of his lips stained with the amber of the fig juice. Patroclus knows then that this is a boy that would not speak an untruth. 

Patroclus feels his skin warm, but perhaps that is just the heat of Aulis. It was approaching midday, afterall. Achilles does not see him, does not turn to meet his own eyes where he would surely be caught staring, and for that much he is grateful. 

“Pat!” He hears his name called from the treeline, and turns to see Xenokrates standing where the sand and grass met. He gestures to hurry his way, back towards the camp, an urgent look on his face. 

He rose to his feet, hurrying towards the treeline. He forgot the bowl still filled with figs on the beach. 

He does not see when Achilles closes his eyes as he leaves, or when he leans his hand on the sand where Patroclus had sat, as if he meant to reach for him before. 

~ 

The sun is just starting to set when the ceremony is finally held. The agora is filled to the brim with soldiers, some more drunk than others, but all excited for the proceedings nonetheless - this is the first they are seeing of a woman in months for many. The altar erected in the agora is decorated with tapestries of indigo inlaid with gold fleece, the sunset in the background making the whole camp glow. If this does not appease the Goddess, Patroclus thinks, then he does not know what will. 

Achilles stands on the erected dais, tall and golden in the cleanest chiton he brought and a chlamys of indigo no doubt brought from Mycenae, the bright gold of his hair contrasting against the deep purple. Opposite him on the dais stands Agamemnon, Odysseus, and Diomedes - no doubt to watch over the proceedings of the wedding. 

There is something wrong, Patroclus thinks, as he watches the kings on the dais. Odysseus stands straight with a grim look on his face, hands held behind his back. Diomedes stands similar with his hands to his sides, flexing his fingers as if he were waiting for a fight. 

And Agamemnon is the oddest of them all. His look is not grim as Odysseus’, but it seems almost like he is in pain, his hands keep flying to the belt strapped on his waist. 

“Something’s wrong,” Patroclus says to Xenokrates, who is standing by his side, a half-empty cup of wine in his hand. 

“What do you mean?” Xenokrates asks, taking a sip from his cup. 

“Look at him,” Patroclus gestures shortly to the commander. “Something’s not right, I can feel it, Zee. He’s acting weird.” 

But Xenokrates only rolls his eyes with exasperation. “This again,” he shakes his head. “You’re just seeing stuff, Pat. He’s marrying off his daughter, of course he’s acting weird. Weirder than normal.” 

Patroclus frowns. “That’s not it.” 

The chariot carrying the princess appears, stopping before the crowd with ceremony. The men bend and look past a sea of heads to see a glimpse of the girl, but her head is covered by a veil. The thin piece of fabric does nothing to hide her size; she was barely more than a child. Still a child, really; she is only fourteen, if Patroclus is not mistaken.

He feels a chill pass through him as she passes him on her way to the makeshift altar. He sees an image of her pressed to the cold stone on the altar. Someone was holding her down, but he couldn’t see who, or why. 

“This isn’t right.” 

“Shut up, Pat, you’re killing the mood here. It’s fine.” 

Her veil is lifted as she approaches the dais. She’s so young, Patroclus remarks with dismay. She smiles at her father, and throws her small arms around his neck in an embrace. Patroclus watches carefully as the king’s shoulders tense. 

The gleam of a blade against the sun. There was blood everywhere, it stained his brand new chiton crimson, he was right there, it was on his face and in his hair. 

It was not a wedding the goddess demanded. 

“Stop the wedding,” he murmurs, watching with a growing horror as her eyes landed on Achilles - who had a similar look of dismay on his face. Did he now realize what was to happen just as Patroclus did?  

“What?” Xenokrates whispers back, giving Patroclus a look of bewilderment. 

“Stop the wedding,” he says louder, ignoring Xenokrates’ protests. He pushes through the crowd now, shoving men out of the way as he tries to reach the clearer path towards the altar. He breaks through the wall of men, many of them protesting at being pushed. 

Agamemnon reaches for his belt just as the princess reaches towards Achilles, the barest sliver of a blade gleaming in the dying sunlight. Patroclus is running towards the dais. She is innocent, and he can make it if he runs fast enough. 

Her skin is pale already, but even more so when the blood from her throat is splattered on it. She is only fourteen, oh gods, she’s only fourteen. 

He reaches the altar just as Diomedes moves towards her. They did not see him barrelling towards the dais, they were too caught up in the motions of their terrible task. Patroclus reaches the princess first, grabbing a hold of her slender wrist and yanking her away from Diomedes’ reach just as he goes to grab her. 

The princess gives a shriek of surprise as she’s yanked backwards, Patroclus wasting no time in steadying her behind him, putting himself between her and the blade her father holds. 

“Menoitiades,” Agamemnon hisses out, the rest of the men staring with a wide-eyed silence at the scene. Diomedes stands at attention, waiting for his commander’s signal while Odysseus stands to the side with an eye of observation - if not one of surprise. Patroclus only keeps the girl behind him, holding her wrist firm in his grip. “What is the meaning of this?” 

All the men are staring at him, he knows, but it’s Achilles’ eyes that he feels. He swallows and takes a breath, turning slightly towards the mass of men. “Agamemnon had planned on sacrificing his own daughter to gain Artemis’ favour,” he exclaims as loud as he can so that all the men might hear. 

A gasp is drawn from the crowd, but none of them are as loud as the small one that came from the princess behind him. Human sacrifice has been outlawed for years; it was a disgusting practice that even the gods turned their noses at. Patroclus could see the men almost shrivel at the mention of it. 

“You said it was supposed to be a wedding!” One man calls from the crowd, directed at Agamemnon. Patroclus sees the king’s jaw clench, glaring sharply in his direction. 

“He’s lying,” He bites out, but Patroclus knows better. He had seen the memory of the blade, of the blood that stained Achilles’ chiton so severely they had to burn it. 

“Then show us your belt, since you’ve paid it so much attention since the ceremony started.” 

There is a tense silence, and Agamemnon knows he has lost. All the men saw him pawn his side, feeling just to see if the knife was still there all this time. He could not hide his guilt now. 

“It was what the goddess demanded,” He concedes, his voice as tense as a string about to snap, and the princess chokes out a sob from behind him. “She said that she was displeased by the blood we would spill in Troy, and that a virgin blood was required as payment. That is why she stopped the wind.” 

A life for a life. Patroclus should not have expected anything less from Olympus. 

“She is your daughter,” Patroclus says, feeling a sharp pang of revulsion settle in his stomach at the thought. He was going to sacrifice his own daughter. 

Agamemnon only grit his teeth. “I have others.” 

The girl is shaking underneath his grip. Patroclus wonders if she bears similar scars from her father as he does from his own. 

Patroclus straightens. “She is under my protection. There will be another way to appease the goddess.” 

His grip on her wrist loosens as he turns to her, offering his hand to help her down from the dais. There are tears in his eyes, and her other hand is pressed to her chest as if she could prevent her heart from leaping out of her chest. As gently as he can, Patroclus leads her down the path away from the agora, pulling the veil over her head as they pass by the crowds of men. She was still a priestess, after all. 

Achilles is still standing on the dais just before they turn the bend towards the Opian part of camp, his mouth set in a straight line. Perhaps he knew what was to happen just moments after Patroclus did. It was hard to tell from a distance. 

But Patroclus does not miss the way Agamemnon practically seethes, his hand still poised over the hidden dagger strapped to his side. But he does not worry so much about the commander; it is Odysseus’ look that makes him frown. A curious look, almost as if Patroclus was a particularly tricky puzzle he needed to solve, crosses over him. 

Patroclus ignores them. The girl was still shaking, and he will deal with the follies of the men later. 

“Thank you,” the girl shakes, gripping his hand in hers as if it could stop her from falling. 

Patroclus only leads her closer towards his camp, and away from the deceitful eyes of the soldiers. 

~ 

The sun has long dipped below the horizon when Patroclus leaves the girl alone, stepping outside his tent to give her a moment of solitude. 

She had cried, but not said a word besides. She had come for a wedding, ready to be received by her husband, and had instead been betrayed by her father. She was only a child, she would not have known any better. 

Patroclus had learned later, thanks to Xenokrates, that the illusion of a wedding was the only way the girl’s mother would have allowed her to travel to Aulis. Patroclus can only guess at the wrath the girl’s mother would feel knowing her husband planned to betray her so severely. 

Xenokrates is by his side in a moment. Patroclus had instructed the men not to enter the tent unless by his word; the girl was in shock enough, she did not need too many strangers bombarding her added on to the events of the day. 

“How is she?” Xenokrates asks. 

“Alright, for now,” Patroclus says with a sigh. She had eaten a little when he gave her food, but had not touched the drink he poured for her. She had only nibbled on some bread, staring into the fire at the hearth. 

Xenokrates nods, but does not leave. “How did you know he was going to sacrifice her?” He asks after a moment. 

“I…” Patroclus hesitates for some reason. “I saw the blade. You don’t bring weapons to a wedding.” 

It was not quite the truth, but Patroclus could not really explain the truth himself. How could he tell the other boy that the reason he knew was because it seemed to have happened before? In that moment, he did not see a young bride grinning at her future husband, but the red and leaking streak across her throat. 

“No one else saw his dagger,” Xenokrates says with an accusatory tone. It is this that causes Patroclus to frown. 

“What are you trying to say?” 

Xenokrates pauses, crossing his hands over his chest. “I don’t think you should have done it.” 

“What? She is innocent, Zee! She’s a child!” 

“That doesn’t matter.” Xenokrates’ voice turns as hard as stone. Patroclus is momentarily taken aback. He has never heard his friend sound this detached in all the years he’s known him. “She was meant to die, Pat, and now we will never get to Troy. You shouldn’t have stopped it.” 

“What are you talking about?” Patroclus searches his friend’s face for any hint of a joke, because that is surely what it must be. It is a terrible thing to joke about, but it could not be anything else. He can’t be serious; Xenokrates had protected him all this life - even if he never asked for it. He wouldn’t simply condemn an innocent girl. 

But Xenokrates does not reply to him. His stony look changes to something sympathetic, but that only makes Patroclus angrier. “I love that you care for others, Pat. Not many men do. But it will be the end of you if you try to save everyone.” 

Patroclus struggles for a moment to find words. “So you’re saying I should have just let her die.” It is not a question. 

Xenokrates doesn’t respond, but his look is all the reply Patroclus needs. 

“Don’t wait up for me,” he says before heading back towards the tent, turning his back on his friend. 

But the tent before him is now empty. It takes Patroclus a moment to fully register what is wrong before he notices that the princess is gone. HIs eyes search the tent when he notices a piece of parchment on the table where the princess’s half-eaten food sits. He picks it up and holds it to the firelight. 

It reads: I’m sorry. 

It is only then when he realizes the tent’s meat knife is also missing. 

The parchment flies to the ground as his feet rush him out of the tent, and he sees a figure with billowing skirts behind them rush towards the agora. “Wait!” Patroclus yells before chasing after her, causing some of the men still lingering around the fires to glance his way. 

He ignores them. There is another way, she does not have to die!

The princess does not respond to him calling to her to stop. She instead spares him one glance over her shoulder, and only speeds up in her chase. Patroclus curses her internally; how did she ever manage to be so fast? 

She is already on the still-fixed altar in the agora by the time he turns the bend, fighting for his breath as he tries to catch up to her. Some of the men wander into the agora just to see what the fuss is about. Xenokrates is behind him, Patroclus knows, but Odysseus comes in to see to the right, followed by Achilles and Ajax. 

“You don’t have to do this, Iphigenia,” he calls to her, slowly approaching the altar as if any sudden movements would scare her off. Achilles is the first of the others to see the princess holding the knife to her slender neck, her hands shaking and tears reflecting the moon’s light streaking down her face. 

“I do,” She calls back, her small voice wavering. “It’s what I’m made for.” 

Patroclus remembers then that the girl is a priestess of Artemis - the goddess who had demanded the sacrifice. 

Achilles moves then, knowing what is about to happen. But it is too late. He may be fast, but there was too much of a distance. Patroclus watches with something akin to horror as the girl’s throat is opened, and her blood splatters on Achilles’ chiton as he reaches her. 

The camp is silent as her body crumples to the ground, the knife clattering on the altar. No one moves as the blood seeps into the dirt below, each man staring in horror on the sidelines. 

But then they feel it. A stirring in the air. A slight breeze starts, cooling the intense heat from the camp. 

That is it, then. The goddess has been appeased. And a young girl is dead at her feet. 

“I…” Patroclus says only because he has nothing else to say. The men watch him now. They had all heard him; she is under my protection. And yet she still died. 

“I would not worry, Menoitiades,” Odysseus’ voice rings out from his right. “Some things are simply inevitable.” 

But the other man is glancing over his shoulder, not looking directly at Patroclus even though it would appear that way. He can almost feel Xenokrates’ hard stare from over his shoulder. 

The girl’s body will be burned in the morning, Patroclus supposes. Odysseus is already instructing the men nearby to collect her from the altar, now that the wind has returned. Patroclus turns to watch as they cover her with a sheet, and sees that Achilles is still standing near it, crimson blood staining his chiton. 

The look on his face tells Patroclus that he has never seen a real death before today. He knows from experience that it is not something that ever goes away. 

His feet are moving towards the dais before he can direct them otherwise. 

“Achilles,” he says, his own voice sounding strained as he tries to gain his attention. Achilles’ eyes land on his from where the body had fallen. There is blood on his face too, Patroclus notices. 

“Come with me,” he says. Achilles is still registering the events of the past few minutes. He would probably not remember to clean; Patroclus hadn’t when he killed the Beorian soldier all those years ago, Xenokrates had to make him in the end. 

He nods, and Patroclus leads them both away. 

~ 

All Achilles knows as his feet carried him through the darkened camp is the tang of blood that seemed to follow him. 

He had been so close. Iphigenia was close enough to touch when she opened her throat, close enough to show him the way her hands shook and the streaks of tears down her cheeks. The look of dull resignation in her eyes. 

Would it always be like this? He came here to kill, that was what the men wanted him for. The greatest warrior of his generation. He must have made a mistake; how could he ever be expected to slaughter men by the hundreds if he could not stomach the death of one girl? 

“...lles.” A voice says to him. He looks up to see Patroclus in front of him, holding out a damp cloth with a sympathetic look on his face. They were in his tent, when did they get there? When had he told him where to go?

“Achilles,” he says again to gain his attention. The way he says it. A-chill-es. At this moment, his questions no longer matter. 

He takes the cloth from him, noticing how pink seeps into the fabric where he touched it. There must be blood on his hands as well. 

Patroclus sits with him as he wipes his hands down, and it is then that he notices there was blood splattered on his arms as well. He works at that area next. 

He was so close to her. Just seconds before and he would have grabbed her wrist and wrenched the knife away from her. She was innocent, and so very afraid. She was only fourteen.  

He can feel Patroclus’ eyes on him from where the other sits. What he is watching for, Achilles cannot say. 

But he seems to be able to read him well. Either that, or Achilles is much more transparent than he thought. “It’s not your fault,” he says, his voice soft. 

“I could have saved her,” he counters, putting more force into one patch that had already dried. 

“It’s not your fault, Achilles,” Patroclus repeats, his voice calm where Achilles’ mind is storming. 

“I was so close.” He is rubbing the skin raw, watching it turn red as it starts to chafe. “I was right there, I could have-” 

He is cut off when Patroclus’ hand brushes his own as he takes the cloth from him. He watches him as the other boy gently passes the cloth over his skin, stripping the girl’s blood from him in slow circles - a practiced motion. 

Achilles’ chest usually aches, even more so tonight with the sudden death of the princess. But it is lighter when Patroclus touches him. 

“Don’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known,” he says, his voice like a balm over a sunburn. 

“You did,” Achilles says. “This afternoon. You knew Agamemnon would try.” 

Patroclus does not answer right away, but only dips the blood-soaked cloth into a nearby bowl of water to clean it before returning to his task. “I saw it, right before it happened,” he says finally. 

“You told me this morning you have dreams that seem like memories,” Patroclus continues, bringing the cloth across his shoulder, wiping at his collarbone, washing the blood off his face in a soothing motion. Yes, Achilles thinks. I remember. 

“I have those too, sometimes. This afternoon was one of them.” 

It makes sense, Achilles reasons. He only saw glimpses this morning, only of someone small with curly black hair. He thought for a brief moment it was the person he always sees, but it had only been a glimpse. Not nearly enough to ascertain any meaning behind it. 

“That’s why you could save her before.” 

Patroclus nods, but his face is set in a grim line. “For all the good it did. She still died anyway.” 

“You tried, anyway. You’re a better man than most.” 

Patroclus honours him with a small quirk of his lip, and the ache lessens even more. 

A clean chiton is laid out across his cot, one that Achilles does not remember laying out. He will have to burn the one he wears now, he doubts very much anyone would be able to get the stains out successfully. 

Patroclus goes to leave once the bowl of dirty water is dumped outside the tent and the cloth is sufficiently wringed out, but Achilles stops him before he can step fully from his tent.

“Wait,” he says, causing the other boy to turn back towards him, one foot past the threshold. The way he looks at him, his brown eyes searching his from underneath the dark mess of curls. He cannot lose him, Achilles thinks. 

(Which is a little ridiculous, because he isn’t losing him, he’s just going back to his own part of the camp. He’ll see him tomorrow, in all likelihood. He isn’t his to lose, anyway.)

He is taking too long to answer. Patroclus waits with an inquisitive look. “I have food, if you’d like,” Achilles manages to get out, trying to find an excusable reason to get him to stay. 

But Patroclus hesitates. “I should get back, actually. We’ll probably sail tomorrow, so…” 

Right. The wind had returned. Agamemnon could no longer delay their descent to Troy. 

“Of course,” Achilles nods. “Later then.” 

A real smile comes to Patroclus’ face then, something soft and beautiful. “Later.” 

Achilles watches as he leaves, letting the fabric doors fall shut behind him, and the ache starts to return.

Chapter Text

The armies of Achaea left as soon as the sun rose, after the princess had been burned and her ashes had been buried. Patroclus observed with sullen silence as the flames engulfed her small body, not just watching the funeral pyre but also Achilles from across the agora. He and his men stood silent from the other side of the pyre, and Patroclus saw the despondency plain on the other’s face; he had watched the girl die right in front of him, after all.  

It did not look right. Such sorrow has no place to sit with him, Patroclus thinks. 

Their camps were promptly taken down afterwards, their ships loaded and boarded. With the winds of Artemis’ blessing, they would start their journey to Troy that morning. Patroclus stands at the side of his ship, watching Aulis disappear as they navigate further into the Aegean. If all went well, they would reach the city of Troy within a week. 

The wind fills their sails until nightfall until Menoitius decides to make camp, along with the Argives and the Phthians - the other kingdoms they were sailing with. 

Patroclus remembers that discussion. 

“Our ships cannot sail the whole way in one run,” Agamemnon had said during the departing council. Patroclus had taken a seat near the back with his father - who was already miffed that he was placed so lowly among the other kings. 

“We will sail in pairs, and reach Troy together by the end of the month.” 

The main armies had been paired with some of the lesser ones; those few kingdoms who could not bring over a hundred men to spare for the cause. Opus was the last to be chosen, Menoitius having been forgotten in the back. 

“We can take them,” Achilles had said for the whole council to hear. His army was already paired with Diomedes, from Argos. But Menoitius had not brought as much as the others; they would not be a burdensome addition. It was a blow to the king’s pride, but not one he would complain outright about, seeing fit to grumble in his own tent afterwards. 

The sun was halfway in the sea when they came across a small island, the beach not nearly as rocky and formidable as the last island they passed. It would do for one night. 

With their ships docked and their tents set up for the night, Patroclus planned on having a quiet evening before another full day of sailing tomorrow. He was tired already from the day’s labours, and knew that tomorrow would be the same, if not worse. 

But of course, nothing in this life he was thrust into could ever be so simple. No, he was expected to mingle. 

Fires had been lit in the middle of the camp, men gathered around them in circles as they cooked their dinner, slopping their drinks over each other as jokes were told and stories of supposed heroism were regaled. 

Patroclus is tempted to just take a drink and some leftover meat and retreat, but Xenokrates notices him from among some of the Argives and waves him over, some of the men looking back at his friend’s commotion. 

Patroclus sighs, and resigns himself to an evening full of bad jokes and unwanted tales of conquest. 

“So,” one of the soldiers starts, chewing on a piece of meat. “We’ll be at Troy in a week. Who do you think’ll down the first man there?”

Patroclus sees several men around the fire pull out a leather purse of coins. Of course there would be a bet. 

“My money’s on Ajax,” one man says, tossing a few coins onto the ground in front of him. “Have you seen the size of him? I bet he crushes skulls as a hobby.” 

Some of the men laugh at the man’s joke, putting in their own bets. 

“I bet on Menelaus,” Xenokrates says once the circle comes around to him, causing a few of the men to turn to him in question. “It’s his wife that’s been stolen. Why wouldn’t he want to be the first to do some damage?” 

Some of the men hum appreciatively, watching as Xenokrates tosses down a few of his own coins into the growing pile. 

“I bet that I’ll get the first kill,” a large man from the side bellows, causing some of the other men to laugh, shoving at the other’s shoulders in good nature. “And I bet you all I’ll do it from the boats coming in too!” 

“Fuck off, Protesilaus,” the man beside the other said. “We all know you can’t shoot for shit!” 

The other man - Protesilaus - only laughs, taking a swig from his cup, wine sloshing over the sides. “I’ll swim to ‘em if I have to! Mark my words, boys, the first Trojan to die will be at my blade!” he says, raising his cup as if he meant to toast to his declaration. 

The other men around the fire raise their respective cups of wine in response, taking a swig of their own as Protesilaus tosses his entire coin purse into the heap. 

“And what of you?” the older man says, his words slurring as he gestures towards Patroclus, the half-empty cup of wine still in his hand. The other men turn to see him sitting among them, somewhat confused when they see him there at all. Perhaps in their own drinking they forgot he had joined them. 

“Me?” 

“Who do you bet on?”

The men were watching him, waiting to see who he would name. Xenokrates leans forward, cheeks flushed from both the wine and the fire, waiting for his response. 

He should name his therapon, if not himself or his father, for loyalty’s sake if for nothing else. Even though they were an army united, the men still wanted distinction. That way there’d be no mistake who the treasures went to when Troy fell. 

“Achilles,” he says before he can really think about it. Any other answer would have fallen flat, he knows. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Xenokrates’ smirk of amusement turn to a grimace-like frown. 

Protesilaus coughs, but everyone knows it is to try and conceal a chuckle. “That boy?” He says, taking another swig from his cup. “Did you see him after the girl died? Nearly thought he was gonna retch on his own feet!” 

Patroclus frowns when tight chuckles are drawn from the other men. Something stirs in him, something he cannot name. 

“He’s not killed before, not like we have, Pat,” Xenokrates nudges at his side with a sardonic grin. “There’s no way he could ever get the first kill in.” 

“Don’t say that,” Patroclus cuts in, the unknown feeling settling in his stomach. “He’s aristos achaion, and god-born at that. It’s unwise to say such things.” 

But Protesilaus regards him with an almost predatory grin. “Why do you care so much, huh?” 

Patroclus doesn’t know, he hardly knows the other boy himself. “I don’t want to be cursed, is all.” This is a reasonable enough fear - the Gods were fickle at the best of times, after all. 

But Xenokrates gives him a look from the side, and Patroclus knows that that grin never leads to anything good. “You know what I think is his problem, boys?” 

Xenokrates is all too casual with his words. “I think our prince here is smitten.” 

A look of horror passes over Patroclus’ face as the rest of the men start to laugh. 

“What? Are you crazy?” 

Xenokrates only laughs, but Patroclus can see most of it is only for show. His eyes flicker around the campfire  to see the other men’s reactions. “Why else would you be so concerned over his reputation?” 

Patroclus should leave. The fireside is suddenly reminiscent of the stuffy classroom in Opus, where all the other boys would eye his bruises and cuts. 

“You can be a real asshole sometimes, you know that, right?” Patroclus glares as he goes to stand, taking his cup with him. Xenokrates’ eyes watch him as he steps away from the circle as if he can’t see why Patroclus should be mad in the first place. 

He takes his own coin purse from his side, tossing it in with the others. “Achilles will be the first to kill, and he will kill more men than all of you combined. I don’t need to bet to know that.” 

He hears Xenokrates call after him as he leaves the fire. “Oh c’mon, don’t be like that! It was just a joke, Pat!” 

Patroclus ignores them, and heads down for the beach. At least there the waves will drown out the loud voices of the other men. 

He walks across the damp sand, downing the rest of his drink to try and drive the feeling in his chest that stays like an itch. It started when Xenokrates had made mention of anyone’s reputation, but the feeling wasn’t even like anything bothersome. It took a moment of careful thought, but Patroclus recognizes it as something like worry. 

(But the odd fact about that was that this worry was not for his own honour; at least if it was it would make a semblance of sense. 

Eyes as cold as marble. The feeling of a massive storm on the horizon, the dark clouds menacing in the distance. An anger so silent it deafens. 

It wasn’t Patroclus’ own reputation he was worried about. But whose?) 

The itch lessens when the bitter liquid travels down his throat, so Patroclus drinks. 

He sees someone in the distance, not far down the beach. Patroclus knows who it is before he can register what he is seeing. 

Achilles is standing on the line where the dry sand meets the wet on the beach, a pile of small stones by his feet, tossing a few of them between his hands. He does not see Patroclus approach, instead eyeing the sea before tossing a stone out towards it. It plops unceremoniously in the water, and Patroclus watches as a frown replaces the look of concentration on his face. 

Another try. Another stone in the water. A huff of frustration this time. 

Another stone. 

Another.

“You’re not doing it right,” Patroclus cuts in before Achilles can waste another stone. Achilles turns abruptly, jade eyes meeting Patroclus’ own. 

He steps back, and gestures to the small pile in the sand. “By all means, then.” 

Patroclus sets down the now-empty cup and chooses the smoothest stone of the pile, rubbing his thumb over it as he observes the calm waters in front of him. 

“You were angling it wrong,” he says, demonstrating as his arm becomes adjacent to the water. “And you were tossing it too hard. It’s gotta have less power, like this.” 

He tosses the stone in demonstration, and both boys watch as the stone flies over the water, skipping three times before finally breaking the surface with a plop! 

Achilles picks up another stone, and tries again. He frowns once again when it doesn’t skip across the surface. 

Patroclus almost laughs. For all the good his demonstration did; Achilles still had the angle wrong. 

“Like this,” Patroclus says, picking up a stone and handing it to the other boy before standing behind him to guide his arm. Together, the stone flies from Achilles’ hand, and skips four times before landing. Patroclus watches as a grin erupts onto the other’s face. 

“See?” Patroclus says, stepping away. Achilles only picks up another stone, smoothing it between his fingers before trying again. 

The stones are gone quickly after that. Patroclus got a record of four skips. Achilles got seven. It is then that Patroclus starts to suspect he knew how to skip stones already. He decides not to say anything, not with the look of glee on the other boy’s face still fresh in his mind. 

“Why do you want to learn to skip stones, anyway?” Patroclus asks as they sit on the beach, his feet digging into the cool, wet sand. 

Achilles shrugs. “My mother never liked it. Said the ripples in the water were always annoying, so I never learned.” 

Patroclus remembers how Achilles had gestured towards the water when he’d mentioned his mother of divine heritage. A minor sea goddess, perhaps. Or maybe a nereid. 

“Why now?” 

Achilles sighs, his feet digging into the sand as well. “She always says she means the best for me, but it doesn’t feel like it recently. Guess I wanted to get back at her, a little.” 

Patroclus never had the courage to ‘get back’ at his father before. Even now, when he was practically a man grown, it was hard. But he understands the sentiment, if nothing else. 

“Well, if she asks about the stones later, I was never here, okay?” 

Achilles huffs out a laugh, a smile breaking through the serious air that had grown around them. 

“Seriously. I don’t need her drenching my entire camp in the middle of the night.” 

“No,” Achilles says with a mischievous grin. “She’d be more likely to drag you down to the caves for fish food.” 

The smile on the boy’s face tells Patroclus that he’s joking - of course she wouldn’t, that was preposterous. Everyone knew the gods feasted on ambrosia, anyway. He laughs along with him, the sound of both their voices swallowed by the gentle waves crashing on the shore.

But then he sees it. Out of the corner of his eye, two men from the campfire at the edge of the beach, looking right in their direction, a knowing grin on their faces. 

The words Xenokrates had said surface in his mind once again. Patroclus is just being friendly, that is all. But such things do not exist to the other men - not once the idea was put in their heads. 

“I have to go,” Patroclus says suddenly, getting to his feet. 

Achilles looks up at him, the question plain on his face as the laughter from before starts to fade. 

“Sorry,” he says, but he is already walking away, the sound of his footsteps in the sand muffled by the sounds of the sea. 

~ 

Troy is not what Patroclus had expected. 

The way the kings spoke of the eastern city was contrary to what it actually was when the mass of Achaean ships finally arrived near its shores. They had said it would be an easy campaign, taking only a few months of sieging before the city got desperate enough to release Helen back to Menelaus. 

They were wrong, in any case. The city was encased by tall, white walls of stone fit so perfectly together it must have been made by the Gods. Patroclus had heard that the sons of Priam - Hector, especially - were devout followers of Apollo. Perhaps he had something to do with it. 

But it was not just the city - the land surrounding that made up the majority of Troy was not a land that could easily be taken. Grassy fields and forests covered a large expanse, and mountains with their peaks rising high into the sky could be seen in the distance. A river flowed around the city, leading into the Aegean which it bordered. 

Patroclus and Xenokrates share a look from their ship. Taking Troy would not be as easy as the kings had led them to believe, both of them knew. 

Shouts among the men travelled across the ship. Agamemnon’s plans were clear; the kings would take the front with the rest of the men fanning out behind and around them. It would be clear - to the Trojans, at least - who here were the men to watch out for among the rest. 

The ships from Opus did not have much to worry about. Menoitius was not considered of great worth, and so Patroclus was content to watch the ships maneuver themselves in as orderly lines as possible. Patroclus could not decide which he enjoyed watching more: the city of Troy from the shore, or the chaos that was filled with chipped hulls and splintered wood. 

“Do you see that?” Xenokrates asks suddenly, drawing Patroclus’ attention away from the arguing armies. “I think there’s men out there.” 

“What?” Patroclus stands, joining his friend at the side of the ship. There, overlooking the hulls they were behind, were men gathering on the sandy beaches. They were too far away to see much else, all the details blurred by distance. 

The groups of men grew, and Patroclus knew then that the Trojan army had seemed to congregate to greet their unwelcome guests. The Achaean ships grew closer, and Patroclus saw that not only had they gathered, but they were also armed. There were archers in the front, standing in lines spanning across the beach, bows in hand and arrows loosely notched. 

A horn blew from the beach, piercing the air with its shrill cry. Patroclus watched the men, armed and armoured from the shore, and heard cries of both surprise and anger from the ships that surrounded him. They were supposed to have surprised the Trojans when they came, but it seems like they were ready and waiting. Perhaps they had expected this the moment Helen entered the city.

A chariot enters the sands, the flags of Priam’s house fluttering in the wind as the horses barrel down the beach. The rowers dig their oars into the water, trying to slow their ascent towards the beach. If they hit where they meant to now, the battles would start earlier than expected. 

They are closer now, and Patroclus stands on the edge of the ship beside Xenokrates as their ships start to slow. A man steps off the chariot as it stops, and the men wait as he takes his place in front of them. 

Hector, Patroclus’ mind supplies absently. The eldest of Priam’s sons and the greatest warrior Troy has to offer. He is nothing like how the men thought him to be. This is a man who can feel the Gods’ eyes on his back. He stands tall before his men and the soldiers of Achaea. 

A shout to his men - indistinguishable from where Patroclus is watching - and the spears and bows are raised, arrows notched and drawn. 

“We’re not in range, are we?” Patroclus asks. They still seemed far away, surely no bowman could ever hope to hit such a distance. 

But Xenokrates doesn’t say anything immediately. His eyes are fixed on the men on the beach. “Get behind me,” he says. 

Hector is no longer in sight when Patroclus looks back to the beach, gone to the other side to talk to that part of his army. Another man replaces him, covered in leather armour with a plumed helmet that obscured his entire face, leaving just his beard in sight. He raises his bow - not quite as large as Philoctetes’ legendary one, but not far off, if Patroclus was any judge. 

He notches an arrow, raising his bow to the sky in preparation to shoot. Patroclus holds his breath as he draws it back, his hands digging into the wood with a tense energy. 

But the arrow never looses. Before Patroclus can even register it, the man has fallen, a spear piercing his chest. The entire bay is silent - Trojan and Achaean both - as the man falls into the sand, his blood starting to drain into the sea. 

 Patroclus stands in shock as registers the fact that the man is dead - and by a spear, no less! They were barely in range for arrows, there was no way anyone could throw a spear and hit it’s mark from this distance. 

Except. He’d seen it before, years ago. 

He looks to his left, and sees Achilles at the bow of his own ship, near the front of the line. He has another spear in one hand, the other shielding his eyes from the sun. There is no doubt as to who the spear was thrown by. 

Patroclus feels a grin of disbelief make its way onto his face. Of course it would be him to do the impossible. It was always him. 

That, and Achilles has just made him a rich man. 

“Did you see who threw it?” Xenokrates asks, scanning the ships for any clue. 

“Achilles did,” Patroclus tells him, the grin steadily consuming him. He sees Xenokrates bristle at the fact, but what else did he expect? Achilles was aristos achaion, after all.

Shouts of triumph start to sound from the ships once they realize it was their greatest warrior who has downed the first man of this war. 

It is then that the arrows start to fly. But the Achaeans are emboldened now. Achilles is tossing spear after spear towards the Trojans as the ships start their ascent once again, each one hitting it’s mark dead in the center of each man’s chest. 

As fearsome as the Trojan army is, there is not much defence against all of Achaea on the beach. By Hector’s command, they all are forced to retreat to the city and regroup. The message they wanted to get across is clear; they will not be so easy to defeat. 

When Patroclus goes to set up the camp later with Xenokrates, he gets a better view of the sleek walls surrounding the city. He wonders how they will ever suppose to break the walls; they seem impenetrable and would not break using brute force, and they are too high for siege towers. Even raiding the surrounding areas would only do so much; it could take years to actually take the city. 

Xenokrates sees him observing the walls when he ceases to help set up the tent. “They’re neat, aren’t they.” 

Patroclus nods his agreement. 

“Wouldn’t it be funny if someone tried to climb them?” 

Patroclus huffs out a laugh. “That’d be stupid, it doesn’t look like there’s any way to scale it from here.” 

Xenokrates chuckles at his words. “You’re right, that would be stupid.”

Chapter Text

The skies are orange and red from sunset when Agamemnon calls the first council in Troy. 

All the generals and commanders of some worth were gathered inside a large tent. There were chairs set up in a semicircle, facing a few separate chairs at the head of the tent. There were two other rows behind the front chairs, but when Menoitius, Xenokrates, and Patroclus finally entered the tent before the meeting began, the others had already been taken. 

Menoitius takes his place standing near the back, scowling with a bitterness he could do nothing about. It fills Patroclus with a grim sort of satisfaction. 

With the greater kings seated, Agamemnon at the front flanked by Menelaus, Diomedes, and Odysseus, the meeting begins.  

The meeting this evening was nothing like the ones held in Aulis. Those were filled to the brim with useless, pointless bragging and arguments between the men. Tonight, it seems like the men have decided to skip all the formalities of before, and instead jump headfirst into the business that was war. 

Talk of latrines, food supplies, and strategy are all discussed, but the kings were divided on how the actual war should start. 

Menelaus was adamant about diplomacy before an outright attack. “I will gladly go myself to deal with them, should no one else wish to join me,” he offers, his voice carrying above all the other’s. “It is my office, after all.” 

Patroclus hears his father grumble under his breath at the king’s words. The men of Opus were war-like, always eager to jump head-first into action if the opportunity was presented. Patroclus is glad that his father is not one of the men chosen for the head of the war council. Direct attack now would get them nowhere. 

But it appears that a few of the men agree with Menoitius in his thinking. “What have we come all this way for, then, if we are just going to solve everything by talking ?” Diomedes complains. 

For some reason, Menoitius decides to voice his opinion in the mix. 

“We would be seen as cowards if we did not attack now!” He voices, the deep gravel of his voice interrupting the air in the tent. The kings turn their eyes to the back of the tent, and Patroclus sees their confusion when they cannot put a name to his father’s face. 

But it is not so much with no recognition that the men’s eyes pierce into them. They probably did not even hear the rest of the words he said, only one: cowards. Some of the men start to glare, but Menoitius seems either blind or immune to them. 

“It would not be wise-” Odysseus starts, but is interrupted when a scoff can be heard. Patroclus sees the men stiffen, and wishes the ground would swallow him. 

“Would you have these easterners see all of Achaea as weak? They saw us all as we approached; if we did not follow through now they will begin to think we will not finish what we started.” 

“No,” Patroclus says, unable to stop the word from leaving him the longer his father’s stupidity is allowed to run wild. The men’s eyes shift from Menoitius to him, and Patroclus wants nothing more than to run out of the tent with the way he can feel them stare; like pinpricks all over his skin. 

Odysseus is trying to hold back a smirk from where he is standing, not wanting to upset Menoitius further than he already is. “Do you have something you wish to add, Patroclus?” 

The men bristle a bit with recognition; no doubt many of them saw him intercede with Iphigenia in Aulis. Patroclus steps forward, past his father’s hulking figure while he ignores the sharp glare the man sends his way. 

The words he says next, he is hardly aware of. He is no battle-strategist, but the words tumble out of him like water down a stream. “If we tried diplomacy now, the surrounding cities would not paint us in such a villainous way. If they see we tried peace at first, they would be slower to come to Troy’s aid.” 

Odysseus gives a cat-like smile, almost predatory in nature, as Patroclus’ words fill the tent. “You took the words straight from my mouth, Menoitiades.” 

“So you’re for this, then?” Agamemnon asks from his chair. 

“There are many ways one can start a war. I think raiding would be a good place to start, in this case,” he shrugs. 

The mention of raids start several other points of excited conversation, and Patroclus is allowed to fade back into the background, taking his place beside his seething father. 

He watches as the rest of the kings start to argue over starting places during the raids; who should lead the first, who should accompany, and which town or village they should raid first in order to achieve the maximum efficiency. 

But Patroclus feels a pair of eyes on him once more. He searches, and finds Achilles on the other side of the tent. He gives him a small smile when their eyes meet, one of appreciation. Perhaps he did not agree with an outright attack against the city either. 

(Which Patroclus did not altogether expect. Achilles was supposed to be the greatest warrior Achaea had to offer. Any other man with such a title would have jumped at the opportunity to prove himself in battle. 

But perhaps Patroclus had been hasty in his judgement. Achilles was not like any other man, after all.)

This time, when Patroclus sees him, he smiles back. 

~

It is midday when Xenokrates decides to run drills with his division before the raid tomorrow. The kings had selected a small town north of the encampment - one that was known to be a substantial supplier of grain to the city. It was a good start towards the raiding they had intended to do, and each kingdom wanted in on it. 

This was what they were waiting for, after all. They came to Troy of conquest, and now they would receive it. 

The men are in lines now, practicing different formations with their spears. Xenokrates hopes for some semblance of order, as Menoitius had commanded all his generals to see to, so they were bound to practice. It was not nearly as interesting as sparring with each other, but would prove itself to be useful still. 

Patroclus stood on the sidelines, claiming thirst, and watched as his friend barked orders at his men, gripping his spear lightly in his hand. 

Spears, he thought with a sense of disdain. Patroclus always hated the spears. Even after all this time, he never quite got the balancing right. 

He would be expected to fight tomorrow, he knows. Even though he is not as high-ranking as some of the other men in the army (his father made sure of that before), everyone still knew him as the king’s son. It would do no one any good if he did not fight alongside the men. 

Still. He feels a tremor of fear when he thinks about fighting tomorrow. He’s capable, but he would always spar with Xenokrates for practice, and he’s pretty sure the other boy let him win more often then he lost. Sparring with your best friend was one thing. Trying to fight a man intent on killing you was quite another. 

“How’s training?” a voice asks as someone comes to his side, making Patroclus jolt away from his thoughts in surprise. 

Achilles has the decency to look at least a little apologetic with the way Patroclus had practically jumped at his sudden appearance. “I didn’t mean to scare you, sorry,” he says. 

“It’s fine, I just didn’t hear you coming, prince.” 

“- Achilles,” he corrects. 

“Right. Achilles. It’s fine,” Patroclus amends, taking a sip from the skin of water he brought. 

There is a moment when they both watch the men train, and Patroclus tries to focus on that rather than the heat radiating off the other boy beside him. 

“Are you getting ready for tomorrow, then?” Achilles asks after a moment, and Patroclus wonders if he feels as awkward as he does. 

“As much as we can,” Patroclus responds. It looks like Achilles had been doing something similar this afternoon as well, if the way his skin glistens in the sun was anything to go by. Patroclus takes another sip of the water, trying to will the flush he feels climbing to his face away. 

“Taking a break, then?” 

Patroclus frowns, but he thinks it must look more like a grimace than anything. “A little one, maybe,” he lies. He’s been taking a ‘little break’ for about half an hour now, not willing to make a fool of himself when he inevitably drops his spear. He does have a little pride, after all. 

Achilles seems to see straight through his lie, however. 

“I’m no good with spears,” Patroclus concedes, his grimace deepening into one of embarrassment. Not like Achilles could expect to fully understand - not with the way he handled the spears like they were an extension of himself when they were on the boats. 

“I could teach you, if you wanted.” 

Patroclus looks at him then, searching as he tries to find any hint of joke on Achilles’ face. Any other man most likely would have mocked him for his confession. 

But all Patroclus finds is sincerity. 

Still. 

“Are you mocking me?” 

The look Achilles gives him makes Patroclus think he’s truly offended him. “What? No, of course not, I wouldn’t mock you.” 

“You seriously want to help me out?” 

“Yes.” 

Patroclus considers him, but still finds no traces of any cruel mockery. “Don’t you have to train your own men?” 

Achilles only shrugs. “They’re capable.” 

Patroclus does not know entirely how to react. No other man would want to train with him, much less help him when they could rather beat him while sparring just for the satisfaction of winning. 

“Just don’t let me win, okay?” Patroclus agrees, and has the pleasure of watching a grin reach its way to Achilles face. 

Achilles leads him away from the Opian part of camp, and Patroclus watches the Myrmidons train together as they pass the Phthian part of camp as well. He only gives the boy ahead of him a confused glance. 

“Are we not training with the Myrmidons?” It would make sense to train in his part of the camp. Instead, Achilles is leading him towards a forested area that backs his camp, and it is then that Patroclus starts to think that maybe this is a trick. 

“Just hold on,” Achilles says, pulling back a branch from their way. 

A few minutes pass where Patroclus follows Achilles through the bush, and Patroclus asks once again where they’re going. He huffs with frustration when the other boy is purposefully vague, saying we’ll be there soon, just hold on! 

They turn one more corner, and before them both is a wide clearing, surrounded by the trees of Trojan roots. The grass is green and lush, untouched by man. The sounds of the camp are muffled and far away; almost like a distant dream. 

“Privacy,” Achilles says with a grin, and Patroclus is helpless but to mirror his expression. 

“Makes for some quiet, and softer falling ground, so no one gets hurt.” 

Patroclus almost laughs with the absurdity of it; that such a place should exist just meters away from a soon-battlefield seems like an otherworldly concept. 

“How ever did you find this place?” He asks, stepping farther into the clearing. 

“Hunting. I was the only one who found it, and I haven’t exactly told the rest that I did.” 

“Guess I’m the first, then,” Patroclus grins at him. 

The soft smile that Achilles gives him back makes a feeling settle in his chest. Mushy, like he ate too many figs. All the while, he does not seem to mind the pleasant ache; it feels somewhat familiar. 

They take to the middle of the clearing when they begin, shucking their sandals somewhere near the edge of the bush. Patroclus stands across from Achilles, who is lightly holding his spear in hand, and adjusts his own grip. 

Achilles watches him, but says nothing. Perhaps he is waiting to see what Patroclus can do already, and simply go from there. 

Patroclus breathes, and starts forward, aiming his spear towards Achilles’ left. Achilles knocks it out of the way with a flick of his wrist, and Patroclus veers right as his spear loses balance. It’s always with the fucking balance, he thinks as he barely catches his feet. 

The rest of the initial spar goes just about the similar way. Patroclus attacks, and Achilles either dodges out of the way or knocks the spearhead away before Patroclus can even control it’s path. 

“It’s your grip, mostly, that’s throwing you off,” Achilles observes as the sun beats down on them, well past midday. He is hardly sweating at all, but Patroclus feels like he is single-handedly creating a small river to rival the Scamander that travels through Troy. 

“Like this,” Achilles demonstrates, showing Patroclus his grip on his own spear. Patroclus observes it, then tries again. He must not have it quite right, because he can hear Achilles try to hide his amusement behind a cough when the spear tips off balance again. 

Patroclus sends him a glare, but it is not genuine. Achilles is trying to hide a grin as he comes to his side, taking his hands and positioning them the way he had demonstrated. 

He steps back, and the spear does not topple. “There,” he says, taking up his own spear in his hand once again. “Now, fight me.” 

Patroclus swings at him, and this time he has control over the weapon. He clashes with Achilles’ spear, and it does not send him careening to the side as it did before. Achilles sends him a grin, and Patroclus feels a sense of satisfaction bloom in his chest as he lunges again. 

Their sparring continues, no one gaining the upper hand for more than a moment (although Patroclus is certain that Achilles is going easy on him), lunging and retreating like the endless ebb and flow of the sea tide. 

That is, until Achilles decides to test his luck. With a flick of his wrist, the spear is spinning in a wide arc in the air, and he turns with a flourish only to distract Patroclus, and jabs at his side with the butt end of the stick. 

Patroclus’ spear is dropped as he stumbles back, the air knocked from his lungs upon impact. He almost catches himself before he falls, but the notion of staying on his feet is quickly abandoned when Achilles tackles him to the ground anyway. 

He is pinned to the ground then, Achilles’ knees on his stomach and hands pinning his wrists to the ground. Patroclus catches his breath only to have it stolen from him again when he looks up. 

The other boy is so close to him their noses are practically touching. Patroclus can count the freckles on his nose, and see the sunlight reflected in the small golden flecks of his eyes. 

(He’d seen them before, somewhere. Even though Patroclus knew he had never been this close to observe so much, these aspects seemed more familiar to him than his own self. 

Somewhere, he’d known all these things. Something told him that now, here on the Trojan soil, he would know them again.) 

“Got you,” Achilles says, his usually melodic voice overtaken with the pride that came from winning a game. Patroclus briefly wonders if the prince has ever truly lost at anything before, given his reaction. Any other man would have yielded at this point, and perhaps Achilles expects it. 

But if Patroclus was never much good with spears during his training, he excelled more at wrestling. He sees Achilles’ smug look drop when he smirks, and hooks his foot around the other boy’s calf in one swift movement. 

Achilles lands on the grass with a thud, but twists at the last second so his shoulder hits, and not his back. He laughs then, sweet and melodic, and kicks at Patroclus before he can pin him down in turn. 

It is when Achilles stills suddenly that they are brought to a halt, the grin that graced his face replaced with one of caution; almost as if his ears were searching for the sound of something approaching. 

“Achilles?” Patroclus says, his own grin fading fast when the other doesn’t reply. Achilles’ eyes dart around the glade, only to rest on a small stream near the wood’s edge - no doubt feeding into the Scamander river that ran nearby. 

“It is my mother,” he says, his voice changing from laughter to grave sobriety. His eyes meet Patroclus’ once again, this time filled with apology. “You should go. She won’t want to see you.” 

Something about his tone tells Patroclus that he doesn’t necessarily want to see his mother either. He nods, and picks up his sandals before slipping them on. 

He turns to bid Achilles his thanks for the practice, but Achilles’ back is already turned, a sort of resignation already settled on him before Patroclus can get a word out. He starts towards the stream, and Patroclus ducks into the woods, back towards the encampment. 

He almost wants to turn just to see a glimpse of the goddess. But a sinking feeling has replaced the one he had felt before, and Patroclus no longer wants to be anywhere near the glade. 

He hurries back through the wood, and hopes that the goddess did not see him leave. 

~ 

It is dark when Patroclus returns to his camp. He expects his tent to be empty when he turns the bend, but the soft light of a candle inside tells him it is not. 

Xenokrates is sitting on the ground near Patroclus’ cot when he enters, whittling away at a piece of wood in his hand. He glances up when the tent’s door is pulled back. 

“Where’ve you been?” He asks, turning the wooden figure over his hand. 

“Training,” Patroclus responds. It is close enough to the truth to not be criticized, unless Xenokrates decides to interrogate him further. Something tells him that the other boy wouldn’t want to hear who he was training with. 

“I didn’t see you this afternoon, though,” the other boy points out, putting away the carving knife before getting to his feet. Patroclus lends him a hand before pulling him up. He really should try and find a chair, or a stool at least, soon; they were bound to be here for a few months at least, if not more depending on how Troy responds to their raids. 

“I went to the beach instead,” he lies. The glade was Achilles’ - and his too, now, he supposes - and he doesn’t wish to share it with anyone else. Not right now, at least. “Softer falling ground.” 

He knows Xenokrates doesn’t altogether believe him - he was never a great liar to begin with. The other boy gives him a look, but thankfully does not press. Apparently, Xenokrates has an agenda. 

“The next few weeks are going to be pretty crazy, so I figured I would give you your gift early.” 

Patroclus frowns with confusion, and Xenokrates is shoving the piece of wood into his hands. 

“You’re seventeen next week,” he grins. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” 

Patroclus only manages an incredulous laugh. So much had happened in the past few months - had a year really passed? He brings the piece of wood up into the light to get a better look. “I- thank you, Zee.” 

The wood is shaped oddly, a mass of lumps and barely-sanded edges. Xenokrates is looking at him expectantly, as if trying to gauge his reaction with a single look. Patroclus has no idea what the shapes are supposed to resemble. “I… I love it.” 

Xenokrates laughs then, and gives him a playful punch to the arm. “I’m just messing with you, I know it’s shit. This is a placeholder ‘till I actually get the hang of carving.” 

“Guess I’ll have to wait until next year, in this case,” Patroclus teases, shoving him backwards in response. 

Xenokrates only grins as Patroclus sets the conglomeration of shapes somewhere nearby, but the air quickly becomes solemn. 

“You’ll be fine tomorrow, you know. I’ll be right there.” 

“I didn’t say I was nervous,” Patroclus protests. 

“You didn’t really need to,” Xenokrates says. “I’m nervous too. So if you weren’t, I’d say the world really has been turned upside down.” 

Patroclus only gives him a smile of assurance. 

A moment passes before Xenokrates sighs. “I lost the dice when we unloaded the ship.” 

Patroclus knows what he means. The last time they were in this situation, they played trinity the night before. “We don’t have to play.” 

“I know, but it’s tradition! Who knows what’ll happen if we don’t play?” 

They search for the dice, looking in both Patroclus’ tent and Xenokrates’. They come up empty handed, but it is enough to distract them from the imminent battle they will face in the morning.

Chapter Text

The armour feels like a second skin when Achilles puts it on - that is how well tailored it is. 

He rises just before the sun does, the red light of the sunrise filtering through the canvas of his tent as dons the armour his mother had crafted for him, painting him crimson before the blood can. He looks in the mirror of polished bronze and wonders if this is how he will look after the day is done. 

His men are already armoured and waiting when he exits his tent, a few of the younger ones standing by the embers of last-nights fires, downing what’s left of their wine for courage. 

Not like they would need it, in any case. It was a smaller populated village they were raiding this morning. Their reports said the village contained only a few able-bodied men - and even less with any weapons training. There was not much to worry about, really. 

The men’s heads lift when he starts towards them, and he walks straighter knowing that all their eyes are on him. This is what I am made for, he reminds himself. Before was but a fraction of the glory he would receive, and today he would receive the rest of it. 

“Your horses are being prepared, my lord,” a soldier tells him - someone of a higher rank but not one whose name he needs to know. He nods his acknowledgement, and knows his men begin to pick up their weapons and follow them as starts to leave. 

The kings picked for the raids today are to convene in the agora beforehand - just to make sure everyone required is accounted for. Diomedes is standing in full armour near the Argive entrance, leaning casually on his spear as he waits for the others. A few of the other kings from minor kingdoms arrive slowly, trickling in as the sun passes the horizon. 

Achilles surveys the others, and sees Patroclus on the other side of the agora, clutching his spear so tightly his knuckles are white; the skin pulled taut over the bones of his hands. Their eyes meet, and Achilles gives him a nod of what he hopes to be encouraging. Patroclus gives him a minute nod back, and Achilles has to stifle a smile before the other kings see. 

Agamemnon says a few words, but Achilles does not have it in him to care for what they are. Their commander would not be leading the first fight today - not that Achilles is particularly surprised. The man did much more talking than action - preferring to hide behind his words than act. 

It was infuriating. But Achilles supposes he will have to deal with it for now. 

Diomedes and his men leave straight away; the words have barely left Agamemnon’s mouth and they are already heading towards their chariots. Some of the other kingdoms start towards their respective place in camp; some of the men still having to don their armour while others still have to check over their weapons. 

Achilles sees that boy - the one who foolishly challenged him in Aulis - approach Patroclus from the side, and sees him guide him away from the agora. Neither of them see him from the other side, but Achilles feels a sort of coldness from the boy anyway. 

Rationally, Achilles knows he must have pissed off a few people already; Agamemnon was no exception, and he was sure there were others of the Mycenaean ranks that felt similarly. But what did he ever do to that boy? 

It is moments later when he and his men approach the border of the camp, and Achilles can see the dust clouds floating in the air from where the Argives have already charged on the road towards the village. He places his spear in its place on the chariot at the head of his army, and hoists himself into it with one smooth movement. His charioteer, Automedon, hands him his helmet, and his men watch with attention as he takes it. 

He looks out at them, standing tall with their spears held straight and their helmets gleaming gold in the growing daylight. He supposes he should say something - something inspiring to rally the men into the fight they will join. He sees them, tall and proud, eager to fight beside him, and knows that he doesn’t need to say a word. 

Instead, he lifts his helmet over his head - obscuring his face with polished bronze - and the men cheer. 

A-chill-es! A-chill-es! 

Aristos Achaion! 

He wonders if he will ever get used to hearing them chant his name like that. 

They race towards the village from the left, knowing that Diomedes was attacking from the right and the smaller kingdoms would join in the middle after the first two have had their fun. Achilles sees them as they approach, a few men armed with spears and swords that were dull with unuse, the others holding pitchforks and scythes - any sort of sharp tool they could use to defend. 

These are no soldiers, and perhaps that is why Achilles hesitates to begin. These were farmers and blacksmiths. Even if they fought back, they would be nowhere near a match for his Myrmidons. 

But one of them throws his spear at the wheels of Achilles’ chariot once he’s close enough, and reaches for the butcher’s knife strapped sloppily to his side. Yes, these men were farmers and blacksmiths, but they had the intent to kill. 

Achilles does not give him the chance to use his knife. A spear is thrown from his hand and plunged directly through his throat. The man makes a choking sound, falling back from the impact of the blow, and blood pools on the dirt below him where he falls. 

The men chant: 

A-chill-es! A-chill-es! 

It is easier after that. He does not kill any unarmed man, and waits for them to attack him first before retaliating. He makes his way through the village, and leaves blood in his wake regardless. 

It is odd, he would think later, how he can be surrounded with so much death and yet never feel more alive than he does when he fights. He sends a spear flying through the air, and is almost giddy with the way the power leaves him as the handle leaves his fingers. His mother, the prophecy, all of it, was right. This is what he was made for. 

(But he still feels an ache - the ever consistent ache in his chest that he’s felt since childhood. He fights, and it remains. 

Time is all he needs. This is hardly a real fight - killing farmers and blacksmiths in a raid before the real war has begun. When he fights a real soldier, the ache will go away, surely. It is only time that he needs.) 

Man after man falls before him, and he does not altogether notice how, slowly, his armour is painted with their blood, covering the gleaming bronze in thick layers of crimson.

But there are more Achaeans in the village now; the other kingdoms must have arrived. Not like they would have much work left to do; most of the able-bodied men were already dead. They would most likely help with taking back the prizes from their bloody efforts. 

Then Achilles spots him from across the way; Patroclus standing in the blood-soaked grass, looking so out-of-place as he freezes to see the carnage. He grips the spear in his hands the way Achilles had taught him before, but it is not his grip that would be his downfall today. 

His helmet is too big - perhaps he could not find a suitable one when he left. There is an armed man charging at him with a spear from the side, and Patroclus does not see. 

He sees something then, like he does when he has dream-memories. Patroclus is fighting near the walls of Troy, but he is outnumbered, and has lost his weapon somehow in a tussle. Where did it go? Where is his armour? Why is he out there at all, oh gods-

Achilles hardly thinks before he rips the spear out of a dead man’s throat and flings it towards the charging man, hoping that it will hit it’s mark before the man hits his own. It spears through the man’s back, and falls dead right in front of Patroclus feet, the weapon falling out of his hands as he hits the ground. 

Patroclus takes a step back in shock, staring with wide eyes at the body in front of him. Achilles goes over to retrieve his spear. 

“Are you alright?” He asks once he is close enough, and Patroclus’ shocked eyes jump to his. He swallows, and gives a nod. 

Achilles pulls the spear from the dead man, and glances over the village. “We’re almost done here,” he says after a quick moment of observation. He looks back to Patroclus, and says “Stay close to me.” 

Patroclus is not given a chance to respond; another man is trying his luck with them, hoping to take advantage of their apparent conversation. He does not get far enough to even make his attempt noteworthy. 

The rest of the raid takes place in a similar fashion. Men try and attack Patroclus, and Achilles does away with them before they can get close enough. There is only once when one man gets past him, but he does not get far. 

Achilles turns once the other three men are lying in their own blood, and the last one is seen with a spearhead protruding through his back. He slumps to the side, and Patroclus is staring at his own hands as if he cannot believe they belong to him. 

The raid is over before midday. The men gather up what they will bring back to the encampment; tapestries and chairs, stores of fruits, meats and grains, a few jewels and amulets, spare weaponry. Things that would no longer be common in times of war. And the women, who were huddled with their children in a large community building near the center. The daughters were kept, but the sons and small children were not. No man wanted a boy to grow with hate in his heart only to kill him later on; and no child would survive the encampment anyway. 

Achilles knew this was coming, surely he must have. Still, he takes no pleasure in seeing the women weep over their lost families as they are paraded away from their home. 

~ 

Patroclus sits in the main dining hall that was erected during the day after the first raid is finished, and stares listlessly at the bottom of his cup. Around him he hears celebration - the sounds of hearty laughter and cheering amidst drinking songs and games the men take enjoyment in. They are celebrating their victory, and why should they not? The raid this morning was an unparalleled success, it was sure to gain Troy’s attention. 

A girl passes by him, still dressed in the same clothes she wore when she was taken, except now there are rips and stains on the fabric. She is carrying a jar filled with wine, and pours some into a forgein king’s empty cup. Only Patroclus seems to notice the tears of hate in her eyes. 

Yes - the raid was an unparalleled success. But it doesn’t feel like it. 

“- isn’t that right, Pat?” 

A nudge to his arm jolts Patroclus from his thoughts, and his eyes almost jump beside him, where Xenokrates and a few other men around the table are looking at him expectantly. “Hm?” 

“I was just telling Thersites here about the man you killed,” he says with a grin. “How he didn’t even see you coming before he had a spear in his back!” 

Patroclus says nothing for a moment, giving his friend an odd look. That was not what happened, Xenokrates was not even there to witness the sole man he killed that morning. It was more like I didn’t see him coming, really. 

“I-” 

But Thersites lets out a laugh before Patroclus can get another word out. “I didn’t think you even had it in you, seeing how you could barely hold a spear yesterday!” 

Xenokrates knows that’s not what happened, but he simply pats Patrorclus’ shoulder in good humour. “Just holding out on us, right?” 

Patroclus watches carefully as Xenokrates takes a sip from his cup, knowing that the other boy is ever aware of the other men’s eyes on him. He was never like this before, but has been ever since that night when they were travelling to Troy. Or, perhaps he was before, but Patrolcus simply never noticed it then. 

“What are you doing?” Patroclus asks, his tone lowering so that it is meant for his friend. 

“Doing what?” 

“This.” 

He takes a sip from his cup, pointedly avoiding his eyes. “I’m not doing anything, Pat.” 

Patroclus frowns. “You know that’s not what happened.” 

For some reason, that is what makes Xenokrates look up at him, but Patroclus only sees hints of warning rather than the expected amusement. 

“Not right now, okay?” 

“Not right now?” Patroclus feels his general confusion turn to anger at Xenokrates’ dismissal. “No, if you’re going to spread lies-” 

Xenokrates jumps to his feet then, startling the men around him at the table. He turns to them to give him his best diplomatic smile, grabbing Patroclus’ arm in his grip. “Excuse us for a moment.” 

Patroclus is practically dragged out of the tent, and is about to punch Xenokrates in the jaw when his arm is finally released. 

“You can’t say that,” Xenokrates says, giving him a hard look that Patroclus is unused to from him. 

“Say what? That you’re lying? Why would you even lie about that - you know that’s not what happened!” 

“To make you look less… weak.” Xenokrates huffs out, looking exasperated when Patroclus answers him with an offended look. 

“The men here value strength. You’re not going to get very far if they hear you were barely able to hold the spear straight to actually kill the man.” 

But Xenokrates doesn’t understand. “I don’t care about all of that. I don’t want you to make me out as some person I’m not just for appearance’s sake.” 

He can still feel the finger imprints on his arm where Xenokrates had gripped him. They were sure to leave bruises with the way it aches. 

Xenokrates pauses, as if weighing his next words carefully. “You don’t get it,” he says. “You are a king’s son, Pat, what will the men think of Opus if they hear the truth about today?” 

“You think I give a damn about Opus’ reputation?” He says behind gritted teeth, as if he keeps the words closer to him they will not be as loud. “Opus has never done anything for me, why should I do anything for it?” 

Xenokrates fixes him with a glare at that, and says, “Opus has done everything for me.” 

Ah, Patroclus thinks, taking a step back. There it is. 

He and Xenokrates were so different at that moment. The men of Patroclus’ home were warriors; they revelled in strength, and war, and violence. They practically bathed themselves in glory at every turn they could come across. Opus had given Xenokrates his training, his position,his status, the war here at Troy. 

Patroclus couldn’t be the prince Opus wanted. Xenokrates walked their ground as if he was born on it.  

“Is that really what you think?” Patroclus asks, breaking their tense moment of silence. 

Xenokrates seems to know what he means, and his eyes widen with the realization. “No, Pat, that’s not what I meant-” 

“Really?” 

Patroclus steps back to leave, and Xenokrates moves to try and catch him before he can get too far. “I don’t know why I said that, I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.” 

“Whatever.” 

He breaks free from where Xenokrates had tried to tug him back, and starts away further into the camp - he doesn’t know where, but knows that anywhere would be better than here, at this point.

“Pat, please,” he hears Xenokrates call out after him. “I didn’t mean it!” 

But he is already gone, retreating past the firelight of the tent and into the darkness. 

He doesn’t know how long he wanders until he hears a noise coming from around the bend. The plucked notes of a lyre. 

He knows who it is. Who else would bring a lyre to war? 

Achilles is sitting near a fire just outside a circle of tents, a few men circled around him as they watch. None of them see as Patroclus takes an empty seat around them, but Achilles’ eyes flick to his for a brief moment. 

The song he plays is nothing like the one Patroclus had heard on Skyros, this one is faster, livelier. The other men - Patroclus guesses they are the Myrmidons - seem to recognize it, as a joyful gleam comes to their eyes as they straighten. 

It is a drinking song, Patroclus soon finds out. A cup filled with wine is shoved into his hands, like he were one of their own, as they start to sing. Achilles sings the lead, and the men follow with the chorus, drinking during each rest. It takes Patroclus a few tries, but he too is eventually singing along. 

Achilles seems to note when Patroclus’ voice mingles with the rest, because he sends him a grin as his fingers dance over the lyre strings. Maybe it’s the wine, or the rush of the song, but Patroclus grins back. 

It seems like hours later when the men start to dissipate, half of them piss-drunk and the other half dragging the others back to their respective tents. The wine cask they drank from was strong, and now empty. 

It is only Patroclus and Achilles who remain around the fire, the flames starting to die down to coals as the night progresses. Patroclus supposes Achilles will want to retire soon, and that is why he does not go to rekindle the flames. 

But for now, they sit, Achilles plucking the lyre strings idly, no particular tune arising. Patroclus watches him, how his fingers move so delicately over the strings, and wonders how the Gods could have made something meant for war so beautiful. 

“I didn’t see you at the main feast tonight,” Patroclus says, if only to distract himself from musing over the other boy. 

“I wasn’t there for long,” Achilles replies, still plucking at the strings. His eyes are focused on the lyre, and Patroclus can hear a faint melody, like he is trying to make a song come to life from his head. 

“Why did you leave early?” 

Achilles’ eyes jump up to his. “Why did you?” 

Patroclus had almost forgotten Xenokrates and his pride, trading those memories for that of drinking and singing. 

Achilles seems to notice his hesitancy, and thankfully decides not to push. “I couldn’t stand it, all those kings in there twisting words around. I’d rather be here, with my own men.” 

This is something Patroclus can understand. Odysseus was known for half-truths and deceptions, clever in a way very few men are - for example. It appears the general men from Ithaca follow their leader in a similar way. 

“And Agamemnon is a prick.” 

Patroclus laughs at his bluntness. No other man would dare insult their commander, but then again, Achilles is unlike any other he’s met. Something about being around him makes him bold enough to agree. 

There is a solid melody now, as Achilles composes. Something in a higher register, making delicate sounds that color the air around them. 

A thought comes to Patroclus suddenly, and he realizes that before Iphigenia, he’d never seen death. How did he manage it after her death? The words spill out of him before he can prevent it. “Was it different today?” 

The melody stutters, but only for a moment as Achilles finds it again. “Was what different?” 

“Fighting.” 

The melody halts then, the lyre held between his fingers carefully. “It was in that it was the first time I had truly fought with another. It was easier than I thought.” 

Patroclus frowns, but only out of confusion. “You mean you never fought with another?”

“No.” 

“Not even to train?” 

“My mother did not allow it. Something about the prophecy, she said.” 

The greatest warrior of his generation. “Then how did you know if it was true?” 

Achilles shrugs, and the lyre is laying in his lap now, at rest. “I guess I didn’t.” 

Patroclus cannot really imagine having a faith so blind. Growing up, he didn’t have much to believe in in the first place, let alone something he had no real proof of. 

“And how about now? Do you think it’s true?” 

There is a moment of silence as Achilles thinks. “Yes,” he says. “I know it’s true. You saw today, they could not touch me.” 

Yes, Patroclus saw. No man he killed was unarmed, but there wasn’t really much of a chance for them in the first place. It was true, they couldn’t even get close enough to try. 

“Do you think it’s true?” Achilles asks, his voice growing softer with a type of apprehension. It is a bit strange to hear it, his voice filled with anything but surety. 

Patroclus thinks of how he threw the spear to kill the man intent on killing him that morning - the one he did not see. He thinks of his fingers nimble around the lyre strings, delicate in a way nothing else can be. 

His mouth feels sour as he speaks next. He knows the answer: Achilles is made for war. So why does it feel like that is not altogether the truth? 

“Yes,” he says. “It’s true.”

Chapter Text

Patroclus is not as slow as to think that Troy would open its gates after the reports of the first raid reaches their ears. Still, he would have preferred it to picking up his spear again. 

But the city is silent. And so the raids continue. 

Opus is not chosen for the next few raids, and for that much Patroclus is grateful. Instead, he helps his part of camp become more familiar with the area, helping other men set up their tents properly, digging latrines, and distributing rations from their stores. The men are thankful for his help, but Patroclus cannot tell if that is because they really value it, or they know he is the king’s son and do not wish to be on the man’s bad side. They must have been unaware of the fact that Menoitius had never given a damn before, and would not now. 

Patroclus hears of the raids when the soldiers return. How fearsome the Argives fight, how skilled and sly the Ithacans are, how the men of Sparta raid and pillage and leave no survivors in their wake. He hears of the spoils they bring back, the gold and jewels and women. 

But mostly he hears of Achilles. 

“I heard he sliced a man’s head clean off his shoulders!” 

“Well I saw him impale two men with his spear, one right behind the other! Think of the kind of power it takes to do that!” 

“Pft, two men is nothing. Did you see him yesterday? He was crazy, must’ve killed at least fifty men in the span of an hour!” 

The stories Patroclus hears range from tame to absolutely ridiculous. One particular one he still chuckles at includes the man himself turning to the shape of a bird to fly into enemy territory undetected, and attacking only when their guards are down. 

Of course it was ridiculous. But Patroclus wasn’t quick to say anything considering the boy’s maternal heritage. 

It is almost a month later when Patroclus is required to pick up his spear once again. A larger village is to be raided that afternoon, and requires more men than before. 

“Here,” Achilles had said beforehand, handing him a helmet from the Phthian stores. “Yours there is too big, you won’t be able to see.” 

Patroclus hadn’t quite known what to say. Sure, the two boys had gotten to know each other considerably better over the past month, but no other man would give his helmet to a man from another kingdom. 

Patroclus had taken it anyway, and found it fit better than the helmet provided from Opus. He saw Achilles smiling with a sort of satisfaction through the eye-slits. “Keep it,” he’d said. “It suits you.” 

When Patroclus gets to the village, it is different from the other accounts of the raids he’s heard. Yes, there are more men, but they seem armed and ready this time. Men were perched from the tops of houses and shelters with arrows, and soldiers were falling quickly when they failed to look up. 

Patroclus steadies the grip on his spear, and weaves in and between both dead and fighting men. He sidesteps puddles of both blood and water, and dodges away from stray arrows and flying spears as best he can. 

He is near the village’s edge when a man falls right in front of his feet - a soldier from Pylos. Patroclus jumps back before he can be taken down with the man, but he is still alive, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. 

From the distance he can see the easternmost part of the Achaean camp - had the fighting really drifted this far from the village? Patroclus’ eyes catch the sight of a large tent of white fabric, so different from the usual beige canvas of the others. The physician’s tent, Patroclus’ mind idly supplies. 

The man at his feet is groaning, struggling to get to his feet as he claws at his injured shoulder. Patroclus grabs his arm and helps him up. He glances back at the battle, and sees Xenokrates behind him, fending off the archers who would have picked him and the injured man off. 

He helps the man back to the camp and away from the battle, and into the enclosure of the white tent. 

The raid today must be worse than he thought. The healer - Machaon - seems to be helping three men at once, while most of the beds are taken up with either injured or dying men. The tent reeks of blood and bile, stinking of death of men whose wounds could not be healed. 

“Well don’t just stand there, bring him here!” A harsh voice commands, and that’s when Patroclus realizes he must have been gawking. 

The healer gestures towards one of the empty beds, hastily bandaging another man’s leg. Patroclus helps the man onto the empty cot, but makes no move to leave and rejoin the fighting outside. In this tent was something he had learned, something he was good at. 

Machaon seems to notice how Patroclus freezes by the man’s side. “Here,” he says, shoving a leather-bound kit in Patroclus’ direction. “Do you know any healing?” 

Patroclus picks up the kit, and figures it must be filled with medical tools. Surgery, his mind supplies, bringing back memories of the hut outside the Opian city, the lonely dead man laying there. “A bit,” he nods. 

The other man only grunts with a frown. “Good enough,” he says, tying off a bandage. As soon as the knot is fixed, the tent’s doors flap open bringing in a new stream of injured men - mostly arrow wounds than anything else. 

Machaon sighs as they enter. “Fucking archers,” he curses, taking a bloody rag off a table to clean his hands. He glances back at Patroclus and the man with the arrow embedded in his shoulder. “See what you can do for him.” 

And he is gone, off to help the new men towards any available cots, assessing the severity of each wound. 

A groan from Patroclus’ left has him turning back to the man. He was younger than Patroclus had thought - the grime of battle covering his face. He could not be any younger than himself, barely a man. 

The arrow had impaled him straight through the shoulder, through the thickest part of the muscle. It would have been a clean shot if it had gone through, but the arrowhead is barbed, and the fletching is stuck in the back end of his shoulder. He could not simply break it off and extract from both ends, else it would catch and cause more damage. 

“Is it… it is going to be o-okay?” The man asks, hands gripping the edge of the cot as he tries to stifle a groan of pain. 

Patroclus is already reaching for a pain draught - he recognizes the mix of poppy and willow-bark from his studies before - and brings it to the man’s mouth in lieu of an answer. The man grimaces as he drinks it, but does so anyway. 

“You’re Antilochus, right?” Patroclus asks as he fumbles with the tie around the leather-bound kit. The man nods, still grimacing from both the pain and the bitterness of the draught. 

There is a knife in the kit, and Patroclus knows that it is meant for surgery. He presses the tip of his finger to edge, testing it’s sharpness, and pulls away when a bead of blood bubbles to the top. Yes, this blade would suffice. 

He looks back to Antilochus, seeing the fear in his eyes as Patroclus holds the knife. Patroclus breathes, and puts on the most reassuring smile he can muster. “You’re going to be fine, Antilochus.” 

He brings the knife to the protruding arrow-shaft, and holds it as steady as he can as he begins to cut at the wood. It is hard, the knife is meant for cutting flesh that is softer, but the wood begins to splinter, and Patroclus knows that it’s working. 

He hears footsteps to his right, but does not turn away from his task. “It’d be faster to snap it off,” he hears Machaon say, but Patroclus does not make any move to change his direction. 

“Less infection this way,” he says idly, focused on his task, cutting away as each wood fiber gives way. Antilochus watches slack-mouthed as the draught takes effect, blood and sweat seeping into the fabric of Patroclus’ tunic. 

“There’ll be infection either way,” Machaon says. Patroclus ignores him, but the other man does not leave. In fact, some of the other men nearby grow curious at the events, and start to gather around him to watch. 

Finally, the arrow-shaft gives, cleanly breaking with minimal protruding fibers that would have splintered. Patroclus throws the broken end to the side, his mind blissfully blank as he asks for a salve. One of the men grapples for it, and he takes a dab of it on the exit and entrance of the wound. 

“Okay,” he says to Antilochus, bracing his hand on the shoulder to keep him steady. “This will hurt.” 

Antilochus nods his acknowledgment. Patroclus grabs the other end of the arrow, takes a deep breath to calm his hands, and starts to pull. 

Antilochus bites through his lip as he tries to stifle a groan, and Patroclus can see some of the other men flinch out of the corner of his eye. He goes slow, not wanting the wood of the shaft to break off as he takes it out. Hopefully the salve would prevent most of the supposed infection, but he is still careful. 

It feels like hours later when the arrow comes out, the wood bloodied but unsplintered. Patroclus exhales with relief, and replaces the shaft for more salve and clean bandages. He hears some of the men laugh with incredulity as he begins to bandage the injured soldier; perhaps they did not think it would work either. 

Machaon comes to Patroclus once the stream of men starts to slow, while he is cleaning off the tools he borrowed beforehand. 

“I would have never treated an arrow-wound like that,” he says, and Patroclus cannot tell whether he is accusing him of something or not. 

Patroclus shrugs. “It would have splintered if I’d snapped it off, and the infection that would have caused would have killed him eventually.” 

Machaon says nothing while Patroclus puts the tools back in their leather sheath, but is stopped by a hand when he goes to tie them closed. 

“You have talent here,” he starts. “I would not have had time to saw away at the arrow, but you knew it heals better that way, didn’t you?” 

Patroclus doesn’t respond right away. When he’d learned healing in Opus, his old teacher - Demophon - hadn’t gone over arrow wounds as much. He didn’t know from any learned knowledge, but knew from a similar experience he doesn’t remember having. 

(It was like that day when the slave girl in his house had broken her arm. He’d set the bone before he knew what he was doing. It was the same just now. His hands were moving with a memory he did not recognize.) 

“I don’t know,” Patroclus says honestly.

“You don’t know?” 

“It just…” he doesn’t know quite how to word it. “It seemed like the best thing to do.” 

Machaon grunts, clearly displeased with his answer. “Well, you are welcome back here whenever you’d like. The way today’s going, there’ll be plenty of arrow wounds for you to fix.” 

Another man limps into the tent, an arrow through his calf. Patroclus takes a breath, and picks up the knife. 

It is only after the sun is beginning to set when the stream of injured men starts to slow to a trickle. The raid had taken longer than anyone had thought, according to the soldiers wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Patroclus had tended to most of them, cutting arrows from flesh and sewing wounds back together. His skin shone with an icky combination of sweat and other men’s blood, his hands quickly forming blisters from all the ceaseless work he had done. 

Still, he felt more satisfaction in his work than he’d ever felt about anything else he’d ever done. This tent might be filled with blood, disease, and death, but Patroclus quickly felt at home with the company of draughts, salves, and bandages. 

He is dismissed by Machaon soon after, claiming he’d done enough work for the day. 

“If you don’t want to fight tomorrow, you’re more than welcome here,” he’d said as Patroclus was cleaning the tools he’d used. The gesture reminds him of his teacher back in Opus, and he  knows then that this place would do more good for him than a battlefield ever could. 

He is slow in his descent back to his camp, his muscles aching from the day’s exertions. He passes by the Argive camp, the Thessalian camp, and the other men from the other kingdoms. They all looked the same to him now, there were no more kingdoms and distinctions. These few weeks of raiding had blurred the borders between Mycenaen and Spartan, between Athenian and Pylian. All these men are simply Achaeans united. 

Patroclus supposes that Agamemnon had succeeded in this way, uniting Achaea as one opposing force, no matter the gallons of blood they would spill. 

He is heading towards the beach before he can think about it, his feet knowing the path better than his head. Many of the men bathed the blood from their skin either in the sea or the Scamander river nearby. 

The beach is nearly empty this evening, and Patroclus guesses that is because it is now later in the day; most of the men have come and gone already. At least now he will be able to wash in peace. 

“Patroclus!” A voice calls from his left. Well, he thinks. Relative peace, at least. 

When Achilles catches sight of him, Patroclus watches as the smile of a greeting is replaced with a look of concern as he approaches. 

“You’re not hurt, are you?”

A wave of confusion passes over him for a moment, because he was hardly in the fight for most of the day, why would he be hurt at all? But then he remembers the blood and grime that soaked into the fabric of his chiton over the course of the day, and the blood caked in his hair from how many times he pushed it back with dirty hands. He probably looks like he had bathed in the stuff. 

“No, no,” he is quick to reassure, if only to get that smile to return. “I helped in the medical tent today. None of it’s mine.” 

Something akin to relief passes over the other boy’s face. “I noticed you had left today,” he says. “I’m glad you’re not injured. I thought you might have been.” 

Something tugs at him then, the same feeling settling deep in his chest now that had done so in the glade. Not even Xenokrates had come to check on him yet. This is one thing he’d noticed in spending more time with the Prince of Phthia: for some reason, he paid Patroclus more attention than anyone else had. Patroclus didn’t quite know how to take it. 

But maybe he ought to try, at the very least. 

“I have yet to clean… Would you like to go for a swim after?” He doesn’t quite know why he’s offering, but Achilles is not exactly what he’d expected. 

Of course, Achilles swims like he was born in the water; and perhaps he was, his mother being of the sea herself. It leaves Patroclus at a great disadvantage. 

Salt and water engulf him as he’s tackled into the sea once again, Achilles’ arms around his middle as goes down under the water with him. Patroclus only laughs, letting water fill his mouth as a consequence. He’s only allowed to surface when he kicks at the other boy, splashing away for air before he’s tackled again. 

They both rise from the water, Patroclus pushing his cleaned hair back from his face as Achilles shakes his in the air, sending sprays of water in a large radius. Patroclus can only shield his face with his arms from the sudden onslaught, not willing to accidentally swallow anymore salt water because of the other boy. 

They sit on the beach to dry before redressing to enter the camp once Patroclus claims fatigue. The sun is setting now, turning the water sparkling golds and ambers. 

“It is odd,” Patroclus muses, not particularly meaning to say those words aloud. 

“What is?” 

Well, there’s no hiding it now. “You are.” 

Achilles gives him a mirthful smile at that, leaning back on his elbows in the sand. “What do you mean: me?” 

A breath. “You are not what I expected, Achilles Pelides.” 

“I’m not?” 

“No.” 

“Then what exactly were you expecting?” 

Patroclus had heard many things of the young prince before they’d officially met. Odysseus’ story did not match his Ithacan’s companion, nor did it match any of the king’s impressions. Some said he was haughty, others said he was naive, others still said he was dangerous. 

Patroclus looks at the boy reclining on his left, and does not quite know what to think. 

“I’m not sure,” he answers. “You are many things, I think. It’s hard to pick just one to base you on.” 

“What sort of things have you heard, then?” He asks, and Patroclus knows it is not just out of pride that he asks. 

Patroclus considers the echoes of the men’s voices running through his head. None of them suffice, he decides. 

“You are stubborn,” he starts, and he can almost feel the frown that creeps it’s way onto the other boy’s face. “But you’re attentive of others - your men especially. You are prideful, but I cannot altogether fault you for that. You sort of have a right to be, I suppose.” 

Achilles says nothing in the midst of his pause, waiting for Patroclus to continue. “I know you fight for glory, but you don’t care much for the violence-” he turns to face him then, wanting to watch his reaction. “- do you?” 

Achilles watches him for a moment. Then, a shake of his head, slow in agreement. “It’s more than fighting.” 

Patroclus knows - watching him fight, other men would think him bloodthirsty, but Patroclus can tell that it is just the way he’s made. He was made for fighting - it made sense that he would excel at it. 

That, and he had seen the way he paled when Iphigenia died. How his hands shook as he tried to clean them afterwards. 

“That’s how you’re different,” Patroclus says. “Any other prince I’ve met has boasted about their kills. You never have.” 

He didn’t need to, really, but his reputation only would have grown if he did. If there was one thing these soldiers valued, it was glory in battle. 

Achilles nods with an understanding. “Neither have you,” he says after a moment. 

Patroclus cannot help a smile of amusement arrive on his face. “I’m no soldier.” 

Achilles huffs out something that sounds distantly like a laugh. “No, you’re not. But you are kind. So, that’s why.” 

It seems Achilles knows Patroclus’ true question before he’s even asked it. Still. “Why what?” 

“Why I want to spend time with you,” Achilles replies, a genuine smile on his face. “You surprised me too. You are unlike anyone else I’ve ever met.” 

Amusement turns softer. The feeling in his stomach returns; a feeling Patroclus has no name for.

It is almost dark when they dress and head back to their respective parts of camp. The feeling stays until Patroclus is asleep, dreaming of golden skin and golden flecks in green eyes. 

~ 

Achilles feels it too, though he doesn’t know it yet. He knows the ache recedes, only to return once the other boy is gone. When he is with Patroclus, he doesn’t feel like the god his mother wants him to be. Everyone clamours for the Hero, the Warrior, the God-Amongst-Men. 

Patroclus never does. He’s the one who isn’t impressed when he juggles the figs in the courtyard. He’s the one who went to wrestle him to the ground when anyone else would have yielded. He’s the only one who had glared at him from across the agora. He’s the one who had seen his obstructed pride for what it was. 

To Patroclus, Achilles is just like anyone else. And Achilles is quickly realizing just how much the other boy is beginning to mean to him. 

It is this:

“Guess what I’m thinking about.” This is a game they play sometimes, after they return from the fighting.

“Food?” 

A laugh. “No.” 

“Training?”

“No.” 

A pause. “Your mother?” 

“No.” 

“Well I don’t know. What are you thinking about, Achilles?” 

You, he thinks, but never has the courage to say. 

And this: 

He runs, his feet kicking up the sand in the dying sunlight. He feels like a box contained of pure energy, and he can hear Patroclus’ voice counting in a steady beat. 

“Twelve,” he says when he reaches him. 

A grin. “I’m just getting started.” 

And this: 

His eyes watching his finger dance across the lyre strings, sitting around the fire of the Phthian camp. 

He mistakes his attentiveness for a wish to learn himself. “I could teach you, if you’d like.” 

He waves it off. “I couldn’t. Not like you.” 

A pause, and Achilles thinks he’s going to elaborate. He doesn’t. “Play it again,” he says. 

Achilles sees the way his eyes almost shine with the request, and cannot help but play it again. He knows then that he’d play the same song for the rest of eternity just to see the other boy watch in wonder. 

It has been three months since the war started. Three months of gathering these things and keeping them in a place as deep as his heart. 

Achilles may be made for war, but when he’s with Patroclus, he swears he could eat the world raw. 

~ 

Patroclus is in the healer’s tent when he first hears it. 

“Did you happen to see that kid, Xenokrates, at the raid today?” 

“I didn’t. He’s not the one to ditch usually, is he?” 

“Maybe he’s scared. Talks big shit about being a man, about how he’s a commander and all that from Opus, but in the end he’s no better than a kid.” 

“Well I wouldn’t be surprised, with how bad Opus’ men did in the last raid. He must know that hiding from shame won’t do him any good.” 

Patroclus frowns to hear this, grinding away at herbs to make a salve with the pestle. They were right, Xenokrates did brag regularly, even more so since they came to Troy. Things hadn’t been the same since their argument all those weeks ago, every conversation held a tense air around them. 

But more men are coming into the tent, sending his thoughts to a halt. The fighting had been easy, but that didn’t mean no one got injured. Some of the villagers were more enthusiastic about their defense than others, it seems. 

Patroclus makes his way towards the Opian part of camp after he’s dismissed for the day. He is deciding whether or not he should go to see his friend after the rumours he’d heard, but he is pulled away by one of his men before he can make the decision. 

“If you’re going to see Xenokrates, tell him I’m sorry for him, will you?” 

Patroclus responds with a frown. “Why? What happened?” 

“You haven’t heard?” 

Patroclus shakes his head no. 

“He’s been demoted.” 

Patroclus is sure he hasn’t heard the man right. “What?”

The man nods his head slowly, a sympathetic look on his face. “Something about Opus’ reputation. The king’s decision. Just tell him to hang in there, alright?” 

The man is gone before Patroclus can interrogate him anymore. 

He walks faster towards Xenokrates’ tent, now resolved in his decision. It was not merely gossip, then. The men before were right about something after all. It was just precisely what that something was is what needed to be known. 

Xenokrates is lounging on his pallet, picking apart a pomegranate, when Patroclus enters. His armour is left sitting at the entrance, left untouched from when he had cleaned it the night before. 

“Hey, Pat,” Xenokrates greets him, mouth full of pomegranate seeds. 

Patroclus takes a moment to watch him, wondering exactly why he wasn’t out raiding today, and what he could have possibly done to get himself demoted. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like?” Xenokrates responds, taking another bite of the fruit. “Eating.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Patroclus all but sighs, still standing at the tent’s entrance. 

It takes a moment for Xenokrates to swallow the food, but Patroclus suspects it is only a front to make it seem like he is not stalling. There is almost a grimace on his friend’s face when he opens his mouth to speak. 

“I guess you heard I got demoted, then.” It is not a question. 

“Yes,” Patroclus nods. “What’s that all about? What did you do?” 

Patroclus still remembers the look of excited pride when Xenokrates learned he was to be named a general when they went to war. He was good at fighting - the best of Opus - and was even better as a leader; the men hung on to his word just from his reputation alone. It was almost unbelievable to think he would have done anything to jeopardize that. 

“Made a right fool of myself, that’s what,” he says, finally getting up to fill a cup of wine from a pitcher. “Got piss drunk, cussed out… every commander there, I think. May have used someone’s helmet as a piss-pot - I don’t know, the end of that night is kind of foggy, really.” 

Patroclus doesn’t quite know what to say. Xenokrates did questionable things while drunk, but never anything extreme. He knows he wouldn’t do anything outright offensive, especially where his reputation would be at risk. 

He wouldn’t have done this accidentally, in any case. 

“Why?” Is all that comes out of Patroclus’ mouth. 

“To which part?” 

“All of it?” 

Xenokrates takes a sip from his cup. “I felt terrible after that dinner, but it wasn’t enough for me to just tell you that I was sorry,” he says. Patroclus remembers then, the deep pit of anger when he saw Xenokrates concerned more about his own pride than his therapon . 

“So you wanted to try and show me instead?” 

Xenokrates nods. “So now all the men that matter think I’m a drunk idiot - which I guess I kinda was. And more so now that I’ve been demoted. And the fact that I’ve skipped out on raiding today, too.” 

“They probably are calling you a coward right now,” Patroclus adds. 

He sees Xenokrates try to hide a grimace, but the other boy was never a great actor since Patroclus has known him. “Probably, yeah.” 

Patroclus doesn’t really know what to say. He sees Xenokrates wring his wrists, watching Patroclus for signs of either acceptance or rejection. 

“Did you seriously piss in someone’s helmet?” 

“I think it was one of the Ajax’s.” 

This is absurd. Perhaps that’s why Patroclus begins to laugh. “That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.” 

Xenokrates seems to know, since he too starts to laugh with him. “Yeah.” 

“Our friendship means more to me than my pride, Pat,” Xenokrates says once the absurdity of the situation tapers off. 

“I know you didn’t mean it. What you said back then.” 

“I know. But I shouldn’t have said it anyway. It was stupid.” 

The other boy offers him a smile, and Patroclus can’t help but return it. 

“So we’re good then?” 

Patroclus just sighs with fake exasperation, punching Xenokrates in the arm playfully. “Yes, Zee. We’re good.” 

And like that, the tension that had surrounded them since that dinner is lifted. It had been a harder few weeks without his best friend, especially around the Opian part of camp. 

“Just know if you do that again I will be pissing in your helmet personally.” 

“Noted.” 

~ 

The sea is storming when Achilles goes to visit his mother, but he finds tonight that he doesn’t mind it as much as he once did. 

The water is crashing at his feet from where he stands on the beach, his mother’s foreboding figure shrouded in shadow looming over, blocking out the late moonlight from the sand. Achilles is glad she had come under the cover of night - this way she wouldn’t have to interact with any of the other men. 

“The real fighting will begin soon,” she says, her voice as harsh and salted as the sea. 

Achilles almost frowns, but then remembers that the real war has not yet begun. They have only been raiding the nearby villages for the past months, Troy stubbornly refusing to open their gates. 

The way his mother mentions it makes him think that the ‘real fighting’ is something of note. “What should I do?” It was easier to get straight to the point and ask rather than play at guessing with her. 

“Do not be foolish,” she says with a frown, as if it should have been obvious. “These past months have been child’s play. You will need to guard your honour carefully after this. There are many who would wish to take it from you.” 

He wants to say that he does not care so much for his honour - it was his mother who had urged him to go in the first place - but that is not entirely true. Why was he here at all, if not for his honour? 

(She had fed him stories when he was younger, back when she visited inside the palace instead of meeting him on the beach.  Stories  of Bellerophon, Jason, Perseus. 

But the one she told the most often was the story of Heracles. How he had proven his worth with his tasks, and through his greatness had been granted his own place on Olympus. He was told it so many times, he could probably recount the details in his sleep. 

“And you will be greater than he was, Achilles,” she’d said to him. “You will be greater than any other man before you, I promise.” 

He remembers now what she had murmured after. He’d barely caught it when he was young, but it was stuck in his memory now. How she’d said, this time I will make it so. )

“I will, mother,” he says. He’d sacrificed this much for the war already. He’d see that he’s paid in full in return. 

“In two weeks there will be a girl on the dais,” his mother says right before she goes to leave. “She will be very beautiful, and many men will want to take her for themselves, as their war prize.” 

A pit of dread settles in Achilles stomach, not so much unlike when he’d seen Deidameia in his rooms on Skyros, or when Odysseus had referenced his supposed night with Iphigenia. He knows what his mother is going to say next. 

“You will take her for yourself.” 

Achilles knows what the men do with their ‘prizes’. He sees the tattered clothes they wear and the way their stomachs already begin to show. He hears the men cheer and clamour, and sees the dull resignation in some of the women’s eyes. 

Achilles swallows. “What if I don’t want to?” 

His mother pauses, the frown she usually wears deepening. “It is essential that you do. The status of your honour depends on it.” 

Achilles frowns, and resolutely does not think of lavender. 

“Yes, mother.” 

She gives him a curious look just as she goes to dive back to the sea. Achilles watches her from the shore. She must know that he would never lie to her; he most likely wouldn’t be able to get away with it in any case. 

“Are you…” she starts but quickly abandons the thought. He waits, hanging on how she had trailed off. 

“What is it?” 

She regards him for a moment longer, but seems to think better of it. “Nevermind,” she shakes her head, as if trying to dispel a thought. 

She dives into the sea just as dawn approaches, painting Achilles in gold. He thinks of her words, of his purpose here in Troy, and the girl he is supposed to claim. 

He runs a hand through his hair, and fervently hopes that it will all be worth it.

Chapter Text

Thinking back, Patroclus wonders if this was the moment when it all started to fall apart. Surely not, so many things have happened between now and then, but he can’t help but wonder if the introduction of this new entity in their lives is what caused the downfall. 

Because if the soldiers had picked any other woman to present as spoils towards the army, maybe everything would have turned out differently. 

The sky is grey and the air is cooler than what is normal when the soldiers return from the Anatolian countryside today. Opus was not asked to participate, but Patroclus would hear stories of it later on. 

He is mending a tunic of his that had ripped when Xenokrates comes bounding into his tent, excitedly exclaiming about what the men had brought back to the camp today. 

“You should have seen the size of the chests, Pat! This town’s gotta be the richest we’ve raided yet.” Xenokrates tells him as he grabs Patroclus’ arm with the intent to drag him along. 

“That’s great, Zee,” Patroclus says, not quite sharing in his friend’s enthusiasm. “You know we can’t actually take anything back, right?” 

The spoils were offered as prizes to those who fought in gaining them. The best spoils of the greatest value were often the first pick to whoever had performed the best. As far as Patroclus knew, Xenokrates and his men had not left the camp all afternoon. 

“I know, I know, but it’s still cool to see the stuff, right? Everyone else is at the agora already, whether they fought or not.” 

That was unusual. Usually the soldiers who hadn’t fought didn’t want anything to do with what they couldn’t have. Today’s raid must’ve been exceptionally bountiful, if that were the case. 

Xenokrates drags him across the camp, a grin of boyish excitement on his face. When they reach the agora, Patroclus realizes he wasn’t exaggerating. 

The only time Patroclus had seen this many of the men together at once was when the Phthians had finally arrived on the beaches of Aulis. They are packed shoulder-to-shoulder around the raised dais in the middle, and Patroclus has to crane his neck to see the chests of jewels and gold, helmets and breastplates, that crowd the wooden platform. 

Xenokrates elbows their way through the men, wanting to get a better view of the spoils, and Patroclus can hear the men murmur their excitement at the prospect of such riches around him. This is the most they have seen since they arrived at Troy. If these were the sort of things they could have from the neighbouring cities, just imagine what the real city of Troy will provide. 

The murmurs grow to rowdy cheers after a moment, and Patroclus looks up towards the dais to see a young woman standing in the center for all the men to see. Her hair is dirty and matted, the expensive-looking fabrics she wears are ripped and muddied, and her wrists are red and chafed from where the ropes bind them together. 

But all of this is overshadowed by the hate in her eyes. She looks over the men below her with a look Patroclus can only describe as revulsion. She is not unlike the other women who have been brought to the camp. 

Patroclus supposes the other men will want her. He sees Agamemnon from the corner of his eyes rake his eyes over her, and Diomedes too is not subtle at how he looks at her from the side of the dais. She is beautiful, he sees now. More beautiful than any of the other women who have come to the camp. 

“Take her,” he hears Xenokrates urgently hiss to him from his side. 

Patroclus must have heard him wrong - the agora was loud enough as it was. “What?” 

There is an urgency on Xenokrates’ face when Patroclus turns to him. “Take her, now!” 

Patroclus only shakes his head. “Zee, if I take her, nothing will stop my father from abusing her.” In fact, Patroclus can see him now, the king of Opus staring hungrily at the girl on the dais, like many of the kings are doing now. The only reason he would claim her would be to make sure she would be safe. He wishes he could guarantee that. 

But Xenokrates only looks at him with frustration, the urgent look still in his eyes. “That doesn’t matter, you have to take her, Pat.” 

Patroclus frowns. “Take her yourself, then,” he says. 

“I can’t.” 

As if that was supposed to be a convincing argument. “I’m not going to put her in harm’s way, Zee.” 

He sees Xenokrates’ hands ball into fists, and he wonders briefly if he’s going to hit him. “You have to, before-” 

Xenokrates is interrupted by a loud voice, overpowering all the other noises in the agora. “Men of Greece,” it says, strong and confident. 

Patroclus would know that voice practically anywhere at this point, but he turns to see anyway. The men fall quiet as Achilles stands tall with the Myrmidons, a formidable-looking rank. The girl’s eyes dart to them, and Patroclus watches as she pales at the sight of him. 

“Great King of Mycenae,” he says, turning to address the king on the other side of the agora. The men watch with rapt attention; it is no secret of the unrest between the two men, and they are eager to see some action. 

Agamemnon is frowning at Achilles. “Pelides?” He seems to know what Achilles is going to ask for. 

Patroclus watches carefully as well, so much so that he does not notice the bruising grip Xenokrates has on his arm. 

“I would have this girl as my war-prize,” Achilles says, standing tall and proud in front of the army. 

Agamemnon scowls, eyeing the prince for any hints towards his intention. Odysseus raises an eyebrow at the request. Unusual though it was, it was not unreasonable; Patroclus is sure that Achilles had been the best fighter during today’s raid, of course he would be deserving of the spoils of the greatest worth. 

It seems like a long moment before Agamemnon speaks again, as if considering the options presented to him. “I grant your wish, Prince of Phthia,” he concedes. “She is yours.” 

The men seem to appreciate this, as the murmurs start again, filling the agora with comments and speculations. Achilles nods, and the rest of the spoils begin to be distributed. 

“- before that happens,” Xenokrates finishes, and it takes Patroclus a moment to remember exactly what he had said before. Xenokrates lets go of his arm, leaving behind red, angry stripes where he had gripped him. 

But Patroclus knows, somehow, that Achilles would not have any intent to hurt her. He did not want her for the reasons the other men did, he is sure. 

“Why can’t he have her?” Patroclus asks as the men start to make their way to the dais to retrieve their own spoils, leaving the two boys in the courtyard. 

Xenokrates watches him for a moment, as if choosing his words before he says them. “I-” he starts, but quickly abandons the idea. 

“Nevermind. It doesn’t matter anymore.” 

He leaves Patroclus there in the courtyard, walking back towards the camp, leaving Patroclus watching him retreat with a frown of confusion. 

Achilles is gone when Patroclus looks back, but the Myrmidons are still there, collecting his share of the treasures. Two men hold the girl from the dais, a fist around each arm - as if they were expecting her to run. 

He sees her, and no longer sees blatant hate. She must know of Achilles’ violent reputation, and that she was to live in his camp. Now, he sees fear. 

It is a look he would become accustomed to later, but perhaps Patroclus should have been able to tell that that is always how it would be. 

~

First, Achilles inspects the treasures the Myrmidons bring back to their part of camp. He does not look at the girl, purposely keeping his back to her. It doesn’t matter - he still feels the hot glare she sends his way. 

There are many things that the Myrmidons bring back - they were the ones who contributed most in the raid today. Kylixes made of gold, beads and dyes for fabrics, precious stones that had been stored up from a rich man’s house. Chests of ancestral armour and decorative weapons - all of which will be repurposed now. He divvies out what he will take for himself, and leaves the rest for the men to choose amongst themselves. 

The girl is nowhere to be seen once he’s finished. Perhaps they brought her to one of the tents. He frowns to think that maybe it was his tent she was brought to. 

He should go see. 

He eats with the men first. 

They have pork tonight, indulging in the extra food they had gotten from the village. The meat is rich and the wine is strong, and the men laugh as the adrenaline from the day starts to wear off as the sun sets. 

“What about you, Adrastos?” one of the men says from around their makeshift table. “Show us what you got!” 

They had gone around the circle, each man showing off what he’d chosen from the loot. Some of them wore the rings and circlets they’d taken. Others had run off to show off the polished helmets they’d claimed. 

The young man mentioned - Adrastos - reaches towards his belt and sets a knife sheathed in leather on the table. The men lean forward to get a better look as he unsheathes it. 

It is no ordinary blade, that much Achilles can tell. It is not made of bronze, nor of iron. It was white, but did not look like bone either. It shimmered with different colors of light when turned, the firelight dancing off of it like polished bronze. 

The men voice their awe, Adrastos leaning back smugly at their wonder. It must have been a family heirloom before - Achilles cannot see how it would be of much use during a real fight. 

“What did you take, Achilles?” someone asks, and Achilles picks out Automedon opposite him. No one else would have had the courage to ask, him being from Phthia like them or not. Automedon is lucky that Achilles was fond of the younger boy. 

“Oh c’mon Auto, we all know what he took!” Another man’s voice interrupts before Achilles can say anything. 

Some of the men laugh. “That’s right, she’s waiting in his tent right now!” 

Achilles takes a sip of his wine to hide the grimace. Of course they had brought her there, it only made sense that they would. She was technically his war prize, after all. 

“Have you seen her yet?” 

The men’s faces are searching him, eager for any news. He’d heard their murmurs - she must have been beautiful. Achilles hadn’t cared enough to notice earlier. 

He swallows the wine, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Not yet.” 

They chuckle then, taking drinks from their own stolen kylixes. Saving the best for last, they joke. Achilles laughs with them, and they are too caught up in their own revelry to see it is not genuine. 

They depart soon after, claiming to not want to keep him from his woman for much longer. Achilles looks back towards his tent, seeing the warm glow of lit candles inside. He gulps down the rest of his wine before heading in its direction. 

The girl’s head jumps towards the door when Achilles enters. She is standing near a small table, and Achilles knows that she had been searching for something amongst his things. Her hands are still tied, and she holds a small meat knife in her cramped fingers. 

He can’t really blame her, he supposes. He did take her away from her home against her will, after all. 

“I would advise you against that,” he says, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels. 

The girl only stares at him, eyes wide, from across the tent. Her hands still grip the handle, making no show that she had even heard him. 

“Drop the knife,” he tries again. She does not move. 

He takes a step to try and take it from her - he does not worry, she wouldn’t be able to truly harm him anyway, but she jumps back, thrusting the knife in her bound wrists in his direction. 

He stops, albeit with a tad of exasperation. A thought comes to him. “Do you speak Greek?” 

She doesn’t respond, just holds the small blade out from her chest, her chest heaving. 

She was from a small village in Anatolia. She had never had to learn Greek before, he supposes. Looking at her in the firelight, Achilles wonders how she couldn’t have even a basic knowledge of the language; her clothes - muddied though they were - suggest wealth. 

She’s still holding the knife. 

“Drop it,” he says lowly, pointing at the ground. She eyes him warily, and her arms waver slightly, lowering the blade. 

This is becoming tedious. He should just call for someone to escort her out. He waits, arms at his sides, and after a moment she lets the knife fall to the ground. He kicks it away, under the table so she won’t be able to make a quick dash for it. 

He breathes out, seeing that the girl seems to have shrunken into a corner, looking like she wishes the ground would swallow her up. Her eyes do not leave his form - maybe she is expecting him to attack. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, slowly, his palms bared to her. She doesn’t move, watching him carefully. 

Her wrists are still bound. Maybe she had tried to cut them herself before, the rope that was used is slightly frayed. 

It is when he moves towards her, unsheathing the knife still strapped to his side, that she finally makes a sound. 

“Get back!” She yells, her voice thick with her accent, trying to shrink away from him. He halts, the knife still in his hand unassumingly. 

“Your hands,” he says, gesturing towards where she was still bound, but this does not work. She hisses something at him, seething in Anatolian. She must speak halting Greek, then. 

This is going nowhere. He’d much rather retire for the night instead of dealing with girls he didn’t want. 

He moves towards her, determined to just cut the damned rope instead of wasting time, and she shrieks, hissing in Anatolian, racing across the other side of the table. He tries to move around it, but she kicks it towards him, sending the table and all its contents tumbling onto the ground. 

He huffs with frustration. He is not a patient person by definition, but he is quickly losing the little resolve he had playing with this girl. How could he tell her he meant her no harm? He doesn’t want her the way the other men do, he isn’t even sure if he could. Not after Skyros. 

What he does know is that if he’s not getting anywhere with her on his own. 

He sheathes the knife, keeping it at his side. He steps over the mess at his feet, ignoring the way the girl yells gibberish at him, and exits the tent. 

“Make sure she doesn’t leave,” he instructs one of the men on guard. 

He doesn’t run through the camp - but he is not slow in his steps. He was never much good with people one-on-one, all except for one person. He was gentle in a way Achilles didn’t quite know how to be. 

He spots Patroclus near one of the campfires in the Opian part of camp easily enough. The other boy he is often with - the one whose name he can’t quite remember - is leaving when Achilles approaches. 

“Patroclus!” He whisper-yells from behind him. 

The other boy turns, a look of surprise on his face when he sees him. “Achilles?” 

Achilles gestures at him to come over, a look of urgency on his face. He doesn’t want to leave the girl alone in his tent for long - who knows what she’d find while he’s gone? 

“What’s up?” Patroclus asks once he’s close enough, but Achilles starts back towards his part of camp, gesturing that Patroclus should follow him. It only takes the other boy a moment to catch up. 

“I need your help,” Achilles says as they turn a corner. 

“Uh, sure,” Patroclus agrees with a hint of confusion. “With what, exactly?” 

With anyone else, he would be embarrassed to admit it, but it is different with Patroclus. In all honesty, he would not have asked anyone else. “You saw the girl on the dais today, right?”