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Chapter Text

The blood slowed from its gushing and now flows sluggishly from the body’s head wound. Patroclus watched the red with rising panic, the anger from the struggle was long gone. Now it is anxiety. How will he face his father? How will he face the father of the murdered boy? The nobleman would not let Patroclus live a moment longer in peace.

He runs.

Patroclus runs to the palace. Through the gardens behind the palace, he races up the stairs to his bed chamber. He collapses to the floor and curls into himself, making himself as small as possible. Patroclus knew what would happen next, he was not valuable enough for Father to loss a nobleman over. Patroclus will be sent away or killed depending on the court’s mood. All he can do is wait. He begins to feel guilt climbing into his throat. Patroclus has taken a life, no matter how cruel the boy had been. He chooses to crawl into his bed and wraps his blankets tight, as if to hide from the world for a moment longer. He sobs are stifled into the blanket as he waits for the inevitable.

The moon had started its journey up into the sky before Father comes to Patroclus’ room. His gait is weighed down with the preemptive grief for his only family. His eyes, which shone the same color as Patroclus’, hold tears for all the fame he has now lost. Father had never cared for Mother, neither in his heart nor palace. After the birth of his heir, Father had ceased thinking of her.

To Patroclus, his father’s tears are uncharacteristic. He has only ever seen the stone hearted man who chose to use Patroclus for fame. Once by marriage, once by sports. Patroclus had rejected both and had therefore endured a lonely childhood shunned by his father.

Each word leaves Father with great effort. He sat at the edge of Patroclus’ bed and lays a hand on the cot. “Patroclus I cannot defend you. The council was agitated” Patroclus shudders at the anticipation of punishment. “You will leave the kingdom at noon tomorrow. The king of Phthia will raise boys with no name as his wards. You will go there.” His father brings his hand as if to rest it in Patroclus’ hair. His hand hovers mere inches above Patroclus’s curls, he whispers into the night, “I am sorry.”

Abruptly, he stands and walks out of the room without a glance back. Patroclus laid and listened as his father’s footfalls fade into nothing. Patroclus’ breaths became sharper and faster with each passing second. He cannot do nothing; how would he survive?

He must leave his bed chamber. There must be a method for him to survive Phthia.

He sits up in bed, his gaze flies frantic around his room. Anything that may appease the gods and lessen his loneliness. His eyes land on the one thing that he held most precious, as the gods would demand nothing short of his most cherished.

Moonlight reflects off the polished wooden lyre as Patroclus sneaks into the forest, out of sight of the guards. He needed more space to do as he intended. The cover of the trees and the lush green grass offer him a sort of privacy from responsibilities that even his own chamber did not.

Patroclus can still recall the humming and small lyre his mother would play at night. When she passed, she was too frail to lift the heavy metal lyres. She preferred the light wood that Patroclus could carry into her bed. She could not recall his name, but the melody flowed as if it was in her blood. The lyre was not golden, it was not of beautiful craftsmanship, but it was invaluable due the intricate memories of his mother. His hands shake slightly as he attempts to strike the matches.

Finally, a spark, he lights the offering bowl with sticks and watches the flames grow. The lyre disappears into the flames as Patroclus prays. To anyone who would care to listen, please. He did not know what exactly he needed, but there must be a being who can aid him in his problems. Patroclus sits in front of the flames with his hands clasped and eyes shut tight. The desperation grew with each crackle of the flames reaching his ears.

A gentle hand rests on his shoulder, the pressure firm and grounding. Patroclus did not open his eyes. He could not face whoever had chosen to take pity on him. He instead speaks with a trembling voice, “Please, would you be able to answer my prayer?”

The hand moved to hold Patroclus’ chin and tilts his face to look up at the figure. Patroclus opens his eyes to see a beautiful man, with golden hair and tanned skin. His eyes shine like molten gold. In his other hand, the god holds the lyre that Patroclus had just burnt, fully restored to its beauty. When he speaks, Patroclus can hear the sounds of wind chimes in his voice. “You’ve offered me a truly prized instrument and made me happy, what can I offer you in exchange Patroclus?”

Apollo

The god of music and healing had answered Patroclus’ pleas. They say you mustn’t have a favored god, but Patroclus had always been inclined towards the gifts his mother had given him. Grace and musicality. But how would he put into words his deepest pleas? Even the most gracious of eternal beings can be fickle with how they gave blessings.

He treads carefully, through one tearful gasp he begins to speak, “I have murdered a boy, and been exiled from my home. I am fearful of my future, I cannot defend myself, my lord. I will be living in a kingdom where my life will have no value.”

“You feel guilt for a death that was in your defense Patroclus, you haven shown me your ability to defend yourself. Do not blame yourself for that.” Patroclus feels the relief wash through his small frame. The god was not angered.

Apollo sits in front of the boy; his presence lights up the grass surrounding the two. He began to strum the lyre gently. “As for your value…it is true that you will struggle for the respect of others. They will see you as weaker than your compatriots. I cannot change their views.” This was expected. Patroclus was smaller than others his age, and through he was good at combat, he preferred the finer arts. It was inevitable that his royal life will make others see him as softer.

“I can, however, give you value. You respect my domains of power. I can gift you something no other gods can.”

Patroclus felt Apollo lay his hand of his head. “From this moment on, you shall be a vessel of my gift. You will show to others the strength that lies within healing.” The light surrounding them grows in intensity for a split moment before vanishing. Patroclus did not feel any different.

“My lord?” Patroclus wipes at his drying tears and asks.

Apollo laughs before speaking, “Just wait my boy!” He snaps his fingers, and a white bunny hops into the clearing. It moves slowly towards Patroclus, dragging its left foot. When it reaches the pair, it sits and watches Patroclus curiously.  “Go on boy, give her a pet.”

Patroclus reaches out hesitantly. He was never allowed any pets in the palace except for dogs. Those too must be hunting dogs. Patroclus never cared much for them and in return the dogs avoided him. The bunny seemed to pick up on his hesitance and began to sniff is still hand.

He slowly raised it and laid his palm on her delicate skull. Immediately, he felt a sharp pain pass through his body. It localized on his foot. Patroclus quickly uncrossed his legs and checked. There may have been snakes nearby.

It was pristine. Not a cut or puncture wound on his foot. But where? The pain began to fade as quickly as it had arrived. He looks up at the god who was watching the moment with avid interest. “Did you feel it?”  

The bunny was still waiting by his side. “It was only temporary. Now, if you will it, you can make it permanent.” Patroclus sat with his mouth agape. That was not possible. How can he? A mortal, be given a healing gift, akin to gods.

“She is waiting for you, Patroclus. Do not hesitate.” Patroclus reached out and let his hand rest on the white animal. The pain returns, but it is dulled.

“How can I heal her?”

“You must be determined; you must be willing and selfless in your thoughts; only then will your gift be able to perform.” How could Patroclus be selfless? He was only a boy of 11 who had yet to experience life.

Patroclus imagines the most selfless person he had known.

He imagines his mother. He thinks of her smile. When Patroclus was born, he had inflicted irreparable damage to her body. Her mind and body began to slowly deteriorate. And yet, she found it in her to love him to her death. She had a selflessness that allowed her to birth him and give this boy she has never met before life in exchange of her own.

He is his mother’s son. He is Philomela’s son, and now he is Apollo’s gift incarnate.

The pain in his foot becomes sharper, but he does not remove his hand. Instead, he picks up the rabbit with both hands and holds her close to his chest. A long moment passes, where all Patroclus does is breathe through pain. It begins to clear slowly, and he opens his eyes to see a beaming god watching him.

“I knew you were special, Patroclus.” Apollo removes the bunny from his hands and sets her down. She begins to hop, in circles and disappears into the trees with a speed she did not have before.

“You will make me proud.”

When the morning comes for Patroclus to leave, he sits on the horse with only gentle ache in his leg but courage in his heart. He will become part of history.

Chapter Text

Patroclus arrives in Phthia with no grandeur. To those living in this kingdom, he was nothing more than another lost boy. Upon his arrival to the gates of the palace, he was quickly escorted to stand in front of the king. The man appears to be of an easier temperament that Patroclus’ father. He does not condone Patroclus to a lifetime of scrubbing floors in the jails, or rearing horses. Rather, he allows Patroclus to join the army of boys being raised in the large castle.

It strikes Patroclus as funny that not much of his routine had changed from home. He was similarly isolated from most of the others who lived in the palace, even the boys he was to train with.

One night while preparing for sleep, a boy came to approached Patroclus to ask his name, but Patroclus had spoken with such haste that it had gained him a name as someone to avoid.

His days ran as such: he would wake, eat in the hall, and join the boys for training which was often highly stilted. Though Patroclus was not enthused by weapons and warcraft, he was raised in a royal court with private trainers that these boys could not afford, which gave him an upper hand on most of them. He chose to hide himself on the training grounds amongst larger groups to not draw to himself any unnecessary attention.

After training, he would choose to bathe and eat dinner before the boys were allowed to pursue any interests of his own. There were few things that kept Patroclus’s thoughts as occupied as his gift most days. During the time after dinner, Patroclus would find a way to remove himself from the palace for a couple hours. He would spend it by the water, or behind the garden practicing his gift on small critters.

The palace sat at the foot a steep and rocky cliff overlooking the wide river. A winding upward path traced the shores. Patroclus would walk to the top of the cliff then climb down the rocks about halfway to a small private beach surrounded by bounders. He found it comforting. 

On his very first night in Phthia, there had been a dove that with a broken wing that bent the wrong direction. The innocent creature was grounded in the middle of the beach, easy prey to any animals of the night. Patroclus had gently stroked the back of his hand down its body and watched this time, as the magic began to slowly move the wing back into its position. The pain had been as bad as the first time, but Patroclus held steadfast. The bird flew into the sky afterwards with a coo of thanks. Since that incident, he began to heal nearly every night and returned to the palace with various aches. He slept like a dead man and worked through most of his days in a daze.

Somewhere between the tireless hours he poured into improving is skills, the pain of healing began to decrease slowly. He could not ascertain whether his tolerance for pain had increased, or the gift had grown in power. In either case, he began to walk with lighter footsteps.

On a sweltering afternoon of training, Patroclus was placed to duel with another boy. He appeared younger than Patroclus and more frightened. His face was gaunt, and his eyes were wide with fear. Patroclus meant him no harm, but the duels were a necessary part of training.

The wooden sword shakes in the boy’s hand. The instructor, Siro, drags the boy forwards by his elbow into the dueling circle. “Stand tall, Andreas, within this ring both of you are equals. Begin the duel!” Andreas began to skirt the perimeter of the circle; Patroclus mirrors his movement eyes trained on the boy’s trembling hands. Their swords meet each other twice in quick sequence. Despite his earlier fear, the boy had some strength in his swings that Patroclus did not hesitate to match. They quickly fell into a dance back and forth.

Andreas attempts a jab towards Patroclus’ left shoulder. Patroclus leans away from the sword and swings his sword towards the boy’s extended arm. He made contact. Adreas drops his sword with a yell and retreats, his arms raised in a sign of retreat. He trips on the dirt and falls onto his bottom. Patroclus stares down at the boy, “Do you surrender?”

The boy nods hurriedly with tears in his eyes. He grips his hurt forearm. Siro grunts in approval. “Dismissed.”

Patroclus lowers his sword, “You fought well” He offers his hand to the boy out of habit.

Andreas smiles and clasps Patroclus’s hand, “Thank you.” It must have not been visible on Patroclus’s expressions, as no one had reacted. But Patroclus felt the rush of pain from the boy’s arm in his own. Patroclus inhales sharply and releases the boy’s hand. He refuses to look at Andreas’ face for the rest of the day.

That was the first time he had felt another human’s pain.

^^^

Patroclus was being escorted to see the prince one month into his stay at Phthia. This was not an unexpected development. He had often seen the prince during meal hours and, just two nights ago, he had been tossed a fig by him. To Patroclus, the prince had simply appeared as another royal who arrogantly knew no bounds to his power.

Patroclus is instructed to retrieve a gift from his home and brought onto a balcony that, where the golden prince sat with a lyre. He seemed carefree. The prince takes one cursory glance at Patroclus. His gaze is stuck on the golden bracelet clasped in Patroclus’s grip. He offers the bangle to the prince with a bow, “your highness.”

“Stand. What is your name?”

“Patroclus, my lord.”

“Pa-tro-klus.” The boy says experimentally. The name slides smoothly off his tongue. He smiles to himself and looks Patroclus in the eye. “Do not call me that. I am Achilles.” There must be a hidden intension that Patroclus has not identified yet, delivering a gift was a simple enough task to assign to a servant. Unless the intention was to insinuate Patroclus as a maid.

Achilles clasps the bangle on his arm, it is too large to sit comfortably on his arm and almost slips off his wrist when he stands. “Perhaps this gift will be of use later.” He holds the bangle in his hand and walks the balcony. “Why do I not see you with the other boys?”

Patroclus finds that there is no simple answer to his question. “It is voluntary, I choose to remain at peace by myself.” Achilles stops his mellow pacing. He waves his fingers, and the servants retreat to give the pair privacy.

“That is curious. Is your wish for peace why you slip away every night?”

Has Patroclus been caught? He was careful to wait until it was late at night, when no one was meant to be awake. Should he apologize for his transgression? Patroclus looks to the sun for guidance, Apollo had not told him to hide this gift, yet it feels like a mistake to reveal it so soon.

“I have watched you Patroclus, taking time away from my own training. I cannot see what you do. Why?”

Patroclus kneels, “I apologize, my prince, I cannot confirm what you have seen. I can cease my expenditures if it pleases you.” There was a certain feeling of pride and wonder that Patroclus felt when he utilized his gift. He was filled with fear at the thought of losing the opportunity to pursue it. Patroclus peers at the boy who now towers over him. Achilles’ golden curls were perfectly framed by the light. His face was cast in a shadow where Patroclus could not read his expressions.

He swallowed and waited.

Achilles crosses his arms and begins to speak. “No need, I cannot stop you when I myself take to the night for training as well.” It felt as if the prince was offering a treaty. A secrete in exchange for another. They both had things they kept hidden from the day, only the moon and the two of them shall be privy.

“You will be announced my therapon and begin attending my lessons with me. And address me by my name, Patroclus.”

“Yes, Achilles.” The name sticks to his tongue like honey.

“You are losing your focus Achilles. How will you lead an army with these skills?” Achilles’ mother stands in on the shores of the river during their nightly training. Once glance at her face shows her disappointment in her godly son. She was especially strict regarding his fighting and counted every wasted moment during the night as another failure from her son. He finches from her words. “I would like a moment mother.” He sets down his sword and takes a breath. Thetis is displeased but allows his respite; she waves her hands to disenchant the watery phantoms she conjured for his lessons. The water sprays on his body as it collapses to the sand and disappears in moments.

There was another person on his mind, past the phantom enemies his mother conjured for his training. If he wandered further down the shore and into the rocky end, what will he find? The mystery nags Achilles.

Thetis insisted on training Achilles at night, she commanded that no one was allowed to see him fight. He would run from the palace to the sea at night where she would teach him against bodies that she conjured out of water and have him run through lonely drills.

On one of these nights, Achilles caught sight of the dark-haired boy escaping the palace. He had forgotten it almost immediately as a random occurrence. Maybe the boy wanted to visit the river; it was a beautiful sight.

But he appeared in Achille’s routine once again.

He would walk up the cliff and along the shore until he reached the rocky edges of the beach. Achilles would walk beside him, hidden in the trees. He began to expect this blurry dark-haired boy accompanying Achilles unknowingly to the beach. Achilles would regretfully part from his companion to meet Thetis and Patroclus would disappear from Achilles’ sight until the next night.

Achilles began to search for him. In the commons, during meals, and training, but it felt as if he always slipped out of sight. Until one meal where he was sat far from the crowds that Achilles expected him to be in. He ate quietly and quickly, watching everything that occurred in his surroundings. Achilles need only give him a whistle before tossing a fig in his direction that the boy caught with one hand. The boy’s eyes watched him with judgement and his face stayed flat. He placed the fruit down and continued his meal. Achilles sent a request to his father; he would like to meet this boy.

The boy’s name is Patroclus. An exile.

It was clear that Patroclus’ efforts to become invisible have backfired. When the exiled prince had first arrived, Achilles had paid him no mind. He had not noted Patroclus’ isolation during meals, or other lessons. He had simply not existed in Achilles’ world until his nightly travels began to disturb Achilles’ routine.

Having only seen the boy at night, Achilles had only a diluted taste of him. The moon drained people of color and life. In the moonlight, Patroclus has warm brown hair that stays tied back with string. Here on Achilles’ balcony, Patroclus has hair that burns red in the sunlight.

The cold bangle given to Achilles glimmers like the golden flecks he sees in Patroclus’ eyes. He decides to keep this by his bed, until he has grown enough to wear it around his arm.

“I will see you tomorrow, Patroclus.”