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He did not know it at the time, the cruelty of men.

He was Godess Born, after all, brought to life by the sea, cleaned by fresh ocean waves as a newborn, wailing red and pink, then laughing, bright as the sun in his mother’s embrace, soothed by the gentle song of the other Nereides. He was a prince, son of a hero, golden and swift as the wind, running through ivory-white halls of impossibly tall columns, marble floors cool under his bare feet, golden trim brushing his fingertips as he passed hall after bright hall.

He was to be Aristos Achion one day. Strong, precise, deadly. The best of men.

He was appreciated. He was beloved. Greatness was at his very core.

Indeed, he did not know of the cruelty of men.

But he would learn. In time.
  
Hunting, his father had told him from the far side of the dining table, was better practice than simply thrusting his spear at no one alone in a beach.

Experience taking a life, he had said. The way a soul makes the body twitch as it leaves it cold.

Achilles had not been entirely sure of the validity of such a statement but, reasoning that he had been looking for an excuse to leave the palace, if only for a moment, he had not made much of a fuss about the arrangements being made on his behalf. He would have absolutely  preferred some time alone on the winding roads descending the hills the palace stood at, the freedom to race his horse through the fields as fast as it could go, wind rustling his hair and stinging his eyes, rather than trotting with five other boys surrounding him, whispering and chittering at his back. But. He would take it. The slice of freedom.

The taste of it.

It was quite alright, he told himself. They were good with their weapons, he had been told, spears and bows both, and would carry their own weight. Would be fun. And either way, in less than a year’s time he would be sixteen and able to come and go as he pleased, no one to stop him from riding out on his own. He’d have all the time in the world to roam the fields at his leisure, to explore the forests. Climb the mountains. Dive the cliffs.

He smiled at the thought and glanced up, as the tree tops thickened and sunlight became but a trickle of golden warmth around them. As the air cooled and the world grew quieter and quieter, birdsong being the one sound which remained.

The forest around them knew them as men, as hunters, and so, became weary.

It did not serve it much.

Hours were spent riding. Rabbits were caught easily, dead and strung by their feet in pairs, congealing blood running down their horses’ flanks where they hung loosely. A boar had been stalked through the morning, finally pierced through the neck by a masterfully thrown spear from the prince himself. Achilles’ companions had entertained themselves shooting arrows at pheasants, at ducks and geese, at a single swan, proudly striking true and lifting the mess of bloody feathers triumphantly at each other. They laughed in hushed voices as a squirrel bested the eldest of the boys, and hurled taunts and challenges around.

It was in the quiet breathlessness of laughter that they saw it.

A stag.

A proud animal, stalking the underbrush, just a few paces from them, its antlers softly brushing the lowest  hanging branches, dried leaves already caught in the velvet. It cautiously, deftly,  waded through the thicket, hooves digging into the loose earth, thick neck shifting under rough hide as it swiveled its head side to side, dark eyes attentive as it watched for movement in the green.

They dared not breathe, lest they frightened what they now saw as their praised prey.

Achilles was the first to move, slipping down from his horse silent as a snake, a cat, stalking its prey, swift and efficient, shifting his cape to one side to free his arms and legs. It all came so naturally to him, stepping on exactly the right spot, keeping away from the wind, remaining out of ear shot, out of sight. The boys could recognize this, would keep out of his way, and he smiled at the thought, at their knowledge and at the anticipation of the hunt, of the kill.

Rabbits and boars had been fun. The stag would have made the trip a worthy endeavor.

He stopped. Watched the animal lift its head and give great breaths, its barrel chest expanding, taking in the air around it for a long, tense moment. It huffed, finally. Then hurried out of the protection of the trees.

Achilles was soon to follow, a tight grip on his spear.

Then he froze. A breath caught in his throat.

Standing in the clearing, a vision.

A nymph, he thought at first, as sunlight caught on bare skin, dewy and glistening, nut-brown. A cascade of dark curls, wild and unruly, half braid and half knot, fell over one shoulder. The hint of a gentle smile softening their profile. Flowers and tall grass all around them, as if from them, cocooned by sunlight and aromatic, spring breeze, wild birds fleeting and singing  all around.

The creature stood before the stag, one hand gently cupping its head, the other petting at it’s neck, while the animal nuzzled softly into their chest with its nose. That delicate hand traveled up and began plucking dead leaves off the animal’s bone-crown, allowing them to drop around them, fingers flicking dust into the rays of hazy warm light around them.

Achilles’ could see nothing else. Would wish for nothing else. No sunlit sea or starlit fields. Only the creature before him, and he would be happy. Until a snap echoed through the forest.

The spell broke, in an instant.

One of the boys, forgotten behind him, had let an arrow fly. Missed. Hit a tree on the other side of the clearing.

Achilles wanted to snap him in half. Rip his head off his shoulders. Scream into the bloody stump. And yet, he did not have the time to do so.

He watched as the nymph - no, just a boy, he could see now, around his age - turned towards them, stretched long and straight as a frightened rabbit, wide eyed, terrified, stumbled back a step. The stag did not hesitate as he did, and gave a long leap towards the tree line, tail flashing white as it fled. Half a second later, the boy turned as well, and ran into the trees.

Before he knew it, Achilles had run after him.

There was no one faster than the prince of Phthia, and yet, he could not catch up as expected.

Achilles moved relentlessly forward, a roiling wave crashing through the land, but the boy knew exactly what he was doing, where he was going. He moved through the forest as animals did, as a sly fox, with purpose, dodging left and right around trees, leaping  gracefully over mighty roots and ducking  under low branches, climbing and jumping and, where the woods slapped at Achilles’ legs and threatened to trip him, the forest itself seemed to open up for the boy, clearing his path, guiding him towards safety.

But even that was not enough.

They had reached a thicker part of the forest. Older, with great, big oak trees, gnarled and twisted like the wise old men they were. Achilles could see the chances to reach the boy slipping him by one by one, could recognize a worthy adversary when he saw one, when he felt one, by the pounding of his heart. He could see the darkness of the ancient woods ahead and he believed, though he loathed the thought, that if the boy reached those woods, he would never see him again.

Achilles knew to do something brash if he wished to succeed.

Finding his footing on an old root, sturdy and thick, he took a leap, launched himself as the hunting cat he was, and fell over the boy.

Together, they crumbled to the ground.

The boy made no sound.

He twisted against the earth, slapped and kicked and fought his loosing battle against Achilles, who simply lifted himself enough to allow him to scramble away and back and back and back through the mud, all the way so his back collided against a mighty oak with bruising strength.

He had not known true desperation before, but he thought he could recognize it, at least. He could, in the boy now huddled against the tree, cradled between ancient roots, now that the glamour of hazy sunlight and wild flowers was gone from around him. Could see him almost bare to the air save from the tattered remains of a chiton knotted around his hips. Could see it on his sharp elbows and knees, knobby ankles, his protruding ribcage, trembling with the force of his rapid, terrified breath. In the mud crusted to his feet, to his hands, his hair knotted and stiff with grime.

In his eyes, wide and dark as night in the shadows of the forest, deep and unfathomable. Starry obsidian stones.

Achilles stood and took confident steps towards him. One, two, three. Each one made the boy flinch. Made him push against the bark in a way that must have been painful against his bare skin. Made him lift his shoulders towards his ears, draw his knees in, lift his arms as if to protect his head if it came to it. Only then did Achilles stop and realized how terrifying he must have been. Him, and his weapons, chasing the boy through the forest, the pair of wild things they were.

Stomping and cracking reached their ears.

Dark eyes snapped towards the trees.

“Prince Achilles!”

A moment later, a cacophony of awkward limbs and sweat crashed through the thicket. The five boys pushed through the bramble, breathing hard.

“Quiet,” he hissed. Dropped his spear, ripped the knife off his belt and threw it to the side as well. “You will frighten him.”

As if I haven’t done that already.

Only then did they truly notice the boy. His horrified gaze, prey-like, yet sharp. Quick. As only the hunted can be.

Achilles payed them no mind. He stooped low, slowly, as smoothly and gently as he could, and scooted forward on the earth before the boy, his knees and feet digging into the mud. He could see him clearly, finally. His face was gaunt, of course, hunger-panged, and yet a softness had somehow remained on him. It was in the  gentle slope of his nose, the slight arch of his cheekbones, the roundness of his eyes. The way he bit his lower lip, hard enough to tint it orchid red. “Are you hungry,” he asked, and watched the flash of dirty teeth tighten around flesh. He sighed at himself. What an eloquent prince. “Of course you are.”

He dug into his satchel, eyes steady on the boy, ignoring the shifting of unsure feet behind him. When his fingers finally brushed against his bounty, Achilles could hardly contain his excitement.

It wasn’t much, he knew. Nothing but a piece of flatbread wrapped in cloth, cut into pieces for easy traveling, but the way the boy looked at it as if it were drops of ambrosia offered by the gods themselves made something in Achilles’ chest swell with pride. Made him want to offer him a banquet of ripe fruits drizzled with honey, platters heaving with meats and bowls of fresh vegetables, spreads of cheeses and breads dotted with almonds and olives. His pride was only dampened when the boy did not take his offering.

“Take it,” he said, the way a princeling does. Watched him flinch again. Clearing his throat, Achilles made an effort to soften himself, dampen all his sharp edges, wrap them carefully in soothing tones, “I will not harm you, I swear it,” and placed a hand over his heart. A true vow.

The boy’s eyes traveled slowly, from the offered bread, towards Achilles’ face and stayed steadily on his eyes, searching quietly. Judging his character, perhaps looking for a lie from the strange creature who had chased him through the woods and tackled him to the ground.

Eventually, a sigh left him and he proceeded to unfold his arms ever so slightly, cocked his head to the side, though the weariness did not leave his gaze.

His eyes went to the boys, still standing and shuffling. Achilles understood.

“I will not allow them to harm you either,” he spoke loudly. Booming. “Under punishment of death.”

He did not turn. Did not need to. Only a second went by, when the clattering of wood resounded through the clearing, spears and bows and arrows, daggers too, falling dully against the ground.

Only then, did the boy extended his hand towards Achilles’, earth-crusted, fingers tinted and mottled red and green, strangely enough, and nails black with soil. Their hands brushed, ever so slightly, before the bread was taken.

One tentative bite. Wide eyes.

Ah, yes, thought the prince. That batch had been baked for him especially, with seeds and bits of dried fruit added to the mix, redolent with herbs. Even soggy with the dew of travel it had to be exquisite.

The boy took another bite. Then another. But still made no sound. Achilles simply watched, cradling his chin on his hand, thinking and thinking and thinking.

Just who had he found? Why? And what was he to do?

Not leave him there, that was for sure.

“Come with me,” he said, finally, smiling as dark eyes snapped to him, mid bite. Crumbs clung to the boy’s cheek. He did not seem to mind them, though he did snap his mouth close, covering it with his free hand as he chewed and listened. “I can hardly leave you here, can’t I?”

No answer. Other than an unconvinced scrunch of a nose, a furrowed brow.

Achilles was not deterred. “Come,” he repeated in earnest, “I will help you. Food and shelter. And you will be under my protection.” Once again, his hand found its place over his heart. Another true vow. He had made a few to the strange forest dweller in the last minutes, and yet, he did not regret a single one yet, intended to keep them all. Including the next one: “No harm will come to you. You have my word. Olympus be my witness.”

That statement rung through the clearing, widened the boy’s eyes. He still said nothing, but turned to look at the last piece of bread in his hand, his brows knitting together as he thought and thought, pressing one shoulder harder against the bark of the oak still cradling him. He looked at the canopy after a moment. At the scarce slices of blue sky visible between the leaves. Then towards the deep forest, opposite to where Achilles sat, for a full minute.

Their eyes met again, soon enough.

“My name is Achilles.” He smiled, because he knew he looked charming as he did. Cheeky. “Would you like to come with me to Phthia and eat more of my bread?”

The boy blushed, then glared, gave a lopsided grimace. Then split the last of the bread in half, and offered a piece to Achilles. He took it. Ignored the grime.

“Is that a yes?”

A tentative nod.

In unison, they popped the bread into their mouths, and chewed and smiled.

The boy was careful as he unfolded himself fully, finally, one hand still gripping the old tree as he stood to his full height before them. Achilles held his breath, surreptitiously glancing at it all, noticing protruding ribs once again, but also noting the wiry muscles of his arms, his thighs, his surprisingly broad shoulders, the line of knobs his spine made, from the base of his neck through the valley between his shoulder blades and all the way down.

“Ah.”

Only then did he remember the boy’s near nakedness.

He snapped into a stand, agile as only he could be, and deftly unclasped the cape around his shoulders. Before any protest could be made, he draped the garment around the boy to cover him, patted it with finality. “There.”

The rich green fabric looked good on him, against his bronzed skin and dark hair. Perhaps he ought to keep it. A gift of good faith.

No more words were exchanged as Achilles guided them through the forest, a hand hovering over the boy’s shoulder, though it was obvious he needed no such help. He was barefoot, but he seemed unbothered as he stepped over soft leaves and dewy grass, directly onto hard-packed soil, steadier than the noble-born boys trailing behind them, their spears and bows back in their hands. He kept pace with Achilles. Achilles kept pace with him, at some points. Neither made a fuss about it.

It was delightful.

By the time they had made it back to the spot their horses waited patiently for them, the sun had dipped low enough to reach its golden arms between the trunks surrounding them.

In the light, Achilles could see he had been wrong.

Those eyes were not black as night. Not obsidian. No, they were rich, wet earth, warm brown, filled to the brim with many things, all kept carefully behind stubbornly constructed dams, thought Achilles could see a razor sharp edge to them. They were clever, watching in rapt attention towards the boys, their busy hands, flitting from one to the next, to the next, their spears, the ones who held bows, those who had daggers hanging off their belts.

He watched them ready the horses looked into the dead eyes of the bleeding rabbits with a quiet understanding, at the boar being loaded to be taken as well, the various birds stuffed into bags. His eyes went to Achilles once again.

“Come,” he told him, and guided him towards his own horse, unburdened except for its rein. “We shall share.”

A quiet nod.

Achilles went up his mount first, then leaned forward against the animal’s neck. The boy cocked his head to the side, then the other, calculating, very much as a bird does, and eventually figured to climb behind him, shaky and unsure, hands scrambling to find purchase on the prince’s shoulders.

The whole time, the boys gaped at them. Achilles glared right back, a warning shining in his eyes, daring them to utter a single word about it.

As they settled together, Achilles guided the boy’s hands, very gently, towards his waist, to circle his middle with his arms, and waited for him to adjust on his seat. They leaned into each other. The horse shifted beneath them. “Ready?”

A brush of a head nodding against his shoulder. A tightening of arms around him.

Good.

“Let us go home.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Tell me again, son.”

Achilles stood before his father’s throne, skin still sticky with sweat, legs still crusted with dried mud from knee to ankle, his sandals ruined, the hem of his chiton heavy with dried soil. He opened his mouth, as if to recount the story one more time, though he truly made no effort to voice anything.

He knew his father well enough to save his breath.

“You found him standing in a clearing,” said the king as Achilles knew he would, one hand already up  and firmly massaging his temples. At the movement, his crown of golden laurels had fallen slightly askew. “Petting a deer.”

Achilles sighed. He did not understand why, out of everything that had happened - the chase through the brambles, the old oaks, the ride home through the fields, the fact that the boy himself was now deep in their palace, left in the care of their most trusted servants - it was the deer which had caught his father’s attention so.

“A stag, yes, father.” He tried to be patient, truly. He knew this to be an important conversation, for himself, for the boy, and yet, he could not keep his feet firm on the clean marble floor, softly shuffling once, twice, tapping, rocking back, forth, back once again. The rhythm of the waves I have bestowed upon you, child, his mother would call it, foam-over-sand voice scraping the morning light, her whispers always half a hiss.  He ached to run through the halls, check on him, keep his promise. “One of the boys scared him off, so I gave chase.”

“And you caught him.” Of course. “And brought him here.”

Again, of course.

“I could’ve hardly left him to starve, father.”

A deep sigh left the king. Rumbling thunder from a faraway sea storm.

“Achilles.”

The prince bristled at his father’s tone, though the man hurried to lift a placating hand, knowing the temper of his golden heir. Knowing, indeed, the rhythm of the waves. Knowing how that dance could swallow ships and still breath, shape mountains if it so desired, patiently beat at the earth until it split under its power.

“Do not misunderstand me, my son, I commend you for your graciousness towards someone in need, truly.” Achilles watched him, a scream caught behind his teeth, which he swallowed and distilled from the beginnings of rage into simple, manageable, righteous offense. At his honor, from the implication of breaking a vow. At his mind, at the thought he had made a poor decision. In the boy’s behalf, from imagining him all alone out there in the cold, in the dark. “Now, to place a stranger under your personal protection…”

A crack, in the damn of his meagre patience.

“I swore no harm would come to him, father!” His voice rose like the morning tide and swallowed the shore  their shaky conversation had been standing on. Once again, for what had to be the thousandth time that day, he placed a hand over his heart, pounded at his own chest, twice with his open palm. “Gave my word, hand upon my heart, Olympus as my witness!”

Hah, but that was the thing.

He was no fool. He knew his father’s worry. They had no idea where the boy had come from. Planted there by someone, perhaps. A spy from a rival kingdom, in the worst case. Maybe he had been left there as punishment for a crime. Perhaps he was a disgraced exile. A dangerous murderer. A petty thief looking for his next big hit. Maybe he was a runaway, and Achilles had brought his problems home. Or he was an innocent bystander caught in the political machinations of a third party.

Or he was just lost and hungry.

Either way. Achilles’ was the Crown Prince of Phthia. A future king, destined to greatness and fortune - to legend, if his goddess mother was to be believed - and he had gone and found a stranger and made a true vow before five noble-born witnesses.

He hadn’t even mentioned he had threatened those noble-born witnesses with death.

He was no fool, indeed. And he was familiar with the concept of ‘timing.’

He found that he understood his father, at least. He worried and wished to protect him, yes, but he also found that, as he thought of the golden clearing, dewy skin glittering in the afternoon light, gentle hands gliding through fur, he could not bring himself to back down.

He did not want to.

“If I may,” an older voice scratched at the tense air between father and son. Both royals snapped to look at the older advisor, Phoinix, with his long chiton and tablet resting on his forearm, well-loved quill loosely held on his right hand. “My king, perhaps this could be good for the young Prince.”

“How so?”

Sandals hissed against marble steps as the man ascended towards his station, calm expression, as always, present. “Perhaps our Prince could finally keep a companion? This boy could be it.”

Yes, thought Achilles. Yes, yes, him.

“Him? But what about…”

“He surprised me,” Achilles hurried to say. “He moved through the thicket like no one I have ever seen, father.” He would remember it for the rest of his life, the image of the boy moving through the bramble, leaping like a deer, graceful and swift in his forest. Not in the way which Achilles was, like the wind, like the waves, as was natural, but with a slyness that can only be learned and struggled through. Which spoke of calloused hands and bruised knees. Of survival. Honed like a fine skill.

It had to be.

How long had he been there, all alone, Achilles wondered, to have learned to move like that? Weeks? Months?

Surely not years.

“How is he like then,” his father asked, breaking away his son’s stream of thoughts, after a long moment of tense silence between them, after letting out a long breath, which seemed to blow away the thickness settling once more in the room. The king smiled, charmingly lopsided, still the galant hero who had sailed the seas of adventure in his youth with the likes of Heracles and Atalanta. “This boy you swore an oath of protection to. How old?”

I thought he was a nymph when I first saw him, Achilles thought, made from morning dew and the perfume of wildflowers, crowned by sunlight, forever beautiful and untouchable.

“Around my age,” he said instead, “He has clever eyes.”

In the shadows, they shine like the night sky, pure black and twinkling with stars. In the afternoon sun, father, they came alive like a fire, like life itself came from them, so rich a brown, filled with so many things I could not understand. I thought I would drown.

“And he seems gentle.”

We rode together here, his chest to my back, and I cannot stop thinking about his arms around my middle, his hands clasped tightly over my stomach, shaking as we crossed the gates. He looked over my shoulder the whole way here. I felt his breath on my ear and I have come alight from it.

“He hasn’t said a word.”

At this his father arched an eyebrow. Achilles was quick to clarify, weary of his response, quick to defend the boy.

“He understood everything I said, of course. And I could tell he knew exactly what was happening. He simply hasn’t spoken. Not even his name.”

A hum left the king as he thought, one hand rubbing at his beard. “Perhaps he had no one to speak to in his forest,” he said, more to himself than to his son, though his eyes did fall to Achilles as he continued speaking, a smile still brightening them, fond and soft, crinkling his features. “Give him time.”

Time.

Not much more had been said about it, and so, Achilles was released from his father’s  audience.

He thought of his words as he hurried through the halls, jumping on one foot as he ripped what remained of his sandal, then shifting to the next and repeating, throwing the offending footwear out a random window.

All alone out there, he thought, and pictured the old oak and the cradle of its roots, knobby knees and sharp elbows. Wide eyes. For so long he had, perhaps, forgotten how to speak.

Through the hall, he ran.
  
Achilles found him up to his chin in water.

The baths were a flurry of activity, as they seldom were. Servants came and went, young men delivering bucket after bucket of fresh spring water, while servant boys scrubbed the floors clean of the remnants of mud and dried grass, mixed with the unmistakable rough texture of salt and volcanic ash, high quality rubs tinted with flower blossoms and aromatic with medicinal herbs.

He was being scrubbed still, by a group of young women, a flock, really, with how they flapped around, wildly calling for each other, reaching into bowls with their hands and painting the boy’s body with sweet smelling oils. They took his arms, his legs, shifted him this way and that and rubbed at his skin, then rinsed him with warm water, lavender and rosemary sprigs mingling in the surface, sinking and bobbing around him.

Beside him, an older woman, her hair wispy and silver, face squeezed with age, sat on a wooden stool. Folded linens rested on her lap, along with blunted metal tools and brushes of various bristle types. A small bowl of pinkish salt completed her tool set.

She held one of the boy’s hands as she worked the stubborn dirt under his nails, brushing from left to right   and back vigorously along the tips of his fingers, tutting the whole while.

He did not seem to mind it at all, too distracted by a platter of dried fruit and nuts placed within his reach.

He would pluck from the bounty with an already pristine hand - a fig, a date, an almond - and pop it delicately into his mouth, then allow the woman to continue her work as he chewed.

“Just where did he find you,” she muttered, very much playing the part of a beloved yiayia scolding her young grandson, fondly, so, so gently, yet firm, “a pit of mud, perhaps? Did he pluck you from the earth like an onion?”

The boy nodded sagely, absolutely serious, but soon scrunched his nose in a smile at her, making her huff and pat his hand, rendering her absolutely powerless. Rendering, in all honesty, Achilles himself powerless. Just like that.

He watched, and smiled, and sighed.

A group of younger girls giggled in the corner at the whole situation.

They scurried off as the prince turned his head sharply at the sound.

A handful of salt gathered in old hands, gently rubbing at the boy’s. On his palm, between his fingers, especially around his cuticles, until his skin became tender and raw, soft looking. He dunked his hands in the water, flexed his fingers and rubbed them together as they surfaced.

“Right, right, young man,” sighed the old woman, stretching tall until her back cracked, pushing her head side to side until her neck cracked as well. She leaned once again, to grab at a dark curl, bouncy behind his ear. “Turn around so I may see the damage here.”

Obediently, the boy shifted in the tub, hands carefully grabbing at the marble edges as he turned and leaned back. Achilles watched as the woman guided him to rest all the way back, tilting his head until his mess of black curls hung off the edge, soaked and limp. She used a goblet to rinse them again and again, squeezing muddy water and picking branches from the knots, dipping her fingers into oils and massaging it into the most stubborn clumps, attempting to loosen them up, slowly, patiently, but with little success.

Dirty water splashed and pooled. Clearer and clearer each time the woman rinsed.

The boy sighed, and watched the servants dance tho and fro, in and out, up and down the stairs, a furrow to his brow. Slowly, slowly, eyes growing foggy. Water splashed by the corner, the slap of rags thrown against a  wooden bucket, brushes bristling against stone. There was mud in the cracks on the floor around the tub, and someone would have to dig it out with a tool - a pair of girls bickered about it quietly.

The boy sank, half an inch, into the water.

Achilles was by his side in an instant. Belatedly, as dark eyes snapped to him, he realized his strange haste, and began plucking dried figs from the bowl, gathering them into his cupped hand.

“Ah, Prince Achilles,” said the old woman, her voice scratchy and quivery, bittersweet as pomegranate juice squeezed a bit too early, “we are not done yet.”

“I know,” he said, and leaned his hip onto the edge of the tub, perching on the rim. He smiled at the boy, unable to keep himself from brightening at him, flushed in the warm water, covered only by the fact that salt and oil had made it murky. He ate one fig, offered him another. Smiled when he took it from his hand. “I am afraid he will drown in there, falling asleep from boredom.”

“Are you implying I am a poor conversationalist, young man?”

Achilles gasped, inclined his head as if affronted. “I would never say such a thing, ma’am.”

Again, young girls giggled as they passed by, their arms spilling with soft fabrics. The boy, simply arched one frazzled eyebrow, seemly unimpressed.

Achilles found himself smiling at that.

“Oh, he thinks he is so charming, doesn’t he?” The old woman never stopped her work, working oils and rinsing again, combing the ends of the boy’s hair and working higher and higher as she went unknotting, then twisting whole strands to separate curls. “You should clean yourself as well, prince,” she said, and sagged with a sigh, “boys, just digging yourselves into the earth, I bet.”

Achilles laughed.

“How else would I have plucked him out from the earth like an onion?”

At least she laughed at that, though she did shoo him away.

Achilles went with little protest, calm in the knowledge that his charge had found himself in capable hands.

It did not take him long to get refreshed. Mud scrubbed off his leg and sweat rinsed off with water heavy with the scent of mint and eucalyptus, his clothing replaced with clean fabrics, blue and trimmed by gold, held only, simply, at one shoulder and falling loosely around him as he preferred for casual days around his home.

By the time he had made it back to the tub, arms up as he tied his hair back loosely at his nape, the flurry  of servants had started anew.

They were a troupe of graceful dancers as they moved around in perfect unison, turning and shifting their feet. Or a unit of soldier, perhaps, each with their duty, passing items between each other - the flash of a buckle, the swish of linen, a comb, a strip of leather - changing hands and ducking around each other.

The older woman was the first to leave the circle, a satisfied spring to her hobbling walk, passing by Achilles. “You will love this,” she said, as more and more servants began to take their leave, gathering supplies in their arms, completely running off to continue their work, whispering and chattering amongst themselves, until, eventually, only the boy was left there, standing.

His hair had been cut, Achilles noticed with a startle, though the shorter length suited him and, if the way he currently shook his curls out with one hand was any indication, he enjoyed the freedom, the lightness. He was completely devoid of mud and  dirt, of all remnants of the forest, and wore crisply white clothing, simple and light, with loose sleeves and tied with a buckskin belt around the waist. His sandals were not new, but well cared for.

And just like that, the boy from the forest, the wild thing, hunted like prey, had become a polite, young man. Though, Achilles noted with some relief, his eyes remained the same. Dark and sparkling in the reflections of the water, clever and sharp and still filled to the brim with what could only be called ‘a lot.’

“Well, look at you,” said the prince, as he stepped forward. His eyes did not stray, excitement building in his chest, as he spoke to a nearby servant boy. “A mirror.”

A platter was brought forth, and settled before them. His companion tilted his head, his whole upper body in reality, forward, curiously, stared at the empty space, and then started at the polished surface, at the reflection in the copper shine, then squinted as he leaned in.

How long since he had looked at himself?

Achilles watched him bring his hands up, trace the edges of his jaw with his thumbs, from hinge to lightly dimpled chin, catching at the humble beginning of stubble, one of his fingers lightly brushing at his lower lip, nail lining a tiny, little scar at the corner of it. He turned this way and that, looked at his nose, the slight downward dip. The skin around his eyes, lightly tinted purple. The smattering of freckles on the high planes of his face. His eyes, deep set. Richly brown.

He scrunched his nose. Dissatisfied.

Achilles felt the wind knocked out from his lungs. He laughed anyway.

“What is with that reaction,” he said, almost demanded, but was interrupted by the servants hurrying to stand at attention and guards standing ready at the door, spears knocking bluntly against the moist marble.

The boy tensed. Stood stretched almost as tall as he could go, on his toes, his eyes so wide they were almost unnaturally round, once again the picture of a frightened rabbit before a group of hunting boys in the clearing, soon to be dead and strung by his feet, dangling and bobbing off a horse’s flank and dripping blood into the fields.

King Peleus made his entrance, calmly surveying the state of his baths, yet to be pristine once again.

“Father.” Achilles took a few steps forward, very consciously between the boy and the king. “I thought to find you later.”

“Aren’t you glad I have saved you the trouble then, son?” His father smiled at him, placating, and cocked his head to look over his shoulder, where the boy stood still. “So this is the one.”

“Yes.”

“Come.” Peleus, King of Phthia spoke clearly, his back straight as he stared towards the boy. “Let me see you.”

Smartly, or perhaps stubbornly, the boy did not allow for hesitation to trip his steps, though he made no effort to hide the path his eyes took. First, to the king’s golden laurels, his station. Next, his belt, a sword, thought  ornamental. Most would have stopped there, but the boy took his time to quickly assess the king’s footing, narrowing his gaze at the glint of a hidden dagger held tightly to the king’s inner calf. An unusual thing for royalty. Danger.

Still, he completed his path to the king and hung his head in respect.

From where he stood, Achilles could see his eyes had remained opened.

He barely blinked.

He kept looking at the dagger.

That, until his father placed a hand, gently, on the side of his jaw, and directed him to look him in the eye.

The boy did, valiantly, though he did brave a look at a window behind them.

“Clever eyes, as my son said,” muttered the king, and then added quietly, “wide and round like and owl’s.” Skops, was the word he had used. The seriousness left his father’s expression all at once, then, and he smiled, patted the boys head, seemingly enjoying the softness of his curls. “Very well, then.”

Achilles was not exactly pleased.

“Father.”

“Son.” He responded, in mirthful jest, and released the boy, who mostly looked confused. “Run along, now. I shall make arrangements.”
  
The boy - Skops, his father had called him all day -  was to sleep in Achilles’ chambers.

A pallet had been prepared for him, smaller than Achilles’ own, shorter too, but comfortable looking, with sufficient blankets, freshly clean and still sunshine warm.

They had toured the palace together, though long echoing halls had quickly been forgotten in favor of interior gardens teeming with flowers and manicured shrubs, which transitioned into wild rolling hills of sweet grass and eventually into sandy dunes constantly kissed by the shore.

Achilles had shown his new companion the way into the beach, pointing at caves he’d found tucked into the craggy cliffs, carved by aeons of crashing waves. He’d shown him the smoother rocks he liked to rest upon, and the beautiful driftwood trunk his mother had washed up for him once on his birthday, and the place were the waves were the gentlest on their feet. He pointed out shells and conchs, and gathered a few, found shapes in the dapples of their shine.

This, and this, and this, he said, and dark eyes watched him, wide and alert.

A nimble finger would point out a shape in the clouds. That. And a divot on the sand, movement in the grass. And that, and that.

Eventually, night found them and chased them back into the castle, tickled their feet all the way to Achilles’ - their - room. They sat together on the window ledge, overlooking the hills they had explored, watching the night-void that was the ocean, the shine of the moon glittering agains the back of the waves.

Between them, a platter of flat bread, the same kind Achilles had offered before the oak three, the same they had used to seal their vow, sprinkled with seeds and dotted by bright bits of dried fruits. As promised. A small saucer of olive oil and sweet vinaigrette rested nearby, and Achilles had shown the boy how to tear a piece of bread and dip the crumbled edge gently on the golden nectar - just a touch, it is strong - before eating.

There was fruit as well, sliced plums from the palace orchards, and whole figs. Wild black berries too, gathered by the cook’s children, washed on the stream that afternoon, most likely. All of it cool in the night air, refreshing and sweet.

They ate.

Achilles talked.

That star, that cave, that tree.

Yesterday I saw, today I think, tomorrow we will go.

And watched his companion the whole time.

Every one of his movements seemed careful.

He was simply gentle, thought Achilles, at everything he did. He thought of him, sitting naked in the tub, plucking treats from the platter, scrunching his nose and smiling at the old lady scolding him for having dirty nails.  How his head had dipped in a vow at the sight of his father, a worried crease to his brow, eyes only leaving his weapons when he absolutely had to, only to seize on the sight of an escape.

He thought of those hands, running through the deer’s hide, flicking dust into the sunlight. How his smile had made his features hazy around the edges.

Him, him, him. Sitting in the moonlight. Fingers sticky with plum juice.

No longer could Achilles keep the question beating its fist behind his ribs in check.

“Do you speak?”

Skops startled, a piece of bread half-way to his mouth. A golden drop of oil fell and beaded on the hand he held beneath his bite. Wide eyes stared at the prince, earth-dark  at the moment, not quite black,  and flitted from his face to the room beyond, to his face again. Nervous. His eyes, the wall, his nose. The door. He almost regretted asking, as Skops’ eyebrows  knitted together, but he selfishly did not.

He wanted an answer. He wanted to know, wanted to almost call him out, to hear him.

Wanted to know his voice. Have his name called. To be told his and call it back.

A breath left Skops, slow, the calming kind which goes deep and swoops like a gull in ones stomach, then released as a sigh through his nose. The bread was placed back on the platter. Hands were brushed and rubbed clean.

Slowly, he tilted his chin up, eyes never leaving Achilles, looking at him through thick lashes. They pointed straight down, he noticed, rather than curl, and were his eyes closed, they would fan neat and dark against the skin under his eyes. Exposed his throat to him, to the moonlight peering through the clouds, a secret just for them.

Achilles did not understand, until shaky fingers trailed a path, left to right, slowly. A straight line. Then, only then, he saw it.

A silvery, pinkish line against nut-brown skin.

Something hot dripped into Achilles’ stomach.

His throat had been slit.

Once upon a time.

Something bitter, but addicting. Metallic as it came up his throat.

He swallowed the feeling back, thick and slow-flowing as pure molasses. It caught mid-way-through. He wanted water, he wanted to let out a scream, but he simply swallowed some spit, and fought it all back once more. Took a deep, calming breath. Bottled that awful things for another time.

Then moved forward. His hands found warm skin.

A shaking shoulder first, which settled under his touch. Then a once injured neck, velvety soft under the pads of his fingers, disturbed only by a jackrabbit fast pulse. He was allowed to feel the mark, smooth but jagged at the edges, wide and thin, made by a fine dagger.

Skops swallowed. Achilles felt it go down, swelling and falling under his palm.

He frowned. ‘Skops.’ Not quite right.

“I wish to know your name.”

He had spoken before he knew it, but he did not question his own request. He threaded lightly through the words, as if to not spook a bird, to keep a water mirror still. It took a moment, a long, tense, ugly thing, acrid and oily, until a curious shine reached his companion’s eyes. Longing, perhaps. Carefully, he took Achilles’ hand, pushed it away from his throat and flipped it palm up, held it over his own, scraped his fingers over it once, several times, until it relaxed enough. Then, and only then, did he begin to write.

Never before in his life had Achilles, son of Peleus, son of Aeacus, son of Zeus, Prince of Phthia,  Goddess Born, Aristos Achion, had ever been so still.

A finger danced gently, slowly, over the palm of his hand, answering his plea.

“Pa,” he pronounced as shivering touch became steady letters, syllables, “tro,” a word, a name, “clus.”

His heart hammered inside his chest, a bird flapping wildly inside his ribcage, singing in joy. “Patroclus,” he asked, and waited for the other to nod. “Pa-tro-clus,” he repeated, carefully and almost reverent.  This time, his companion gave a watery smile as he nodded once again. A twinge of color rose to his cheeks. It gave Achilles the impression that he had not heard his name in a long, long time. Made him imagine him, once again, all alone among the trees, in the cold, in the dark.

That would not do, he thought, and so, he grabbed his hand.

Still sticky. He did not mind.

He brought Patroclus’ knuckles to his forehead. Closed his eyes. Smiled the whole time.

“A pleasure to meet you, Patroclus.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Patroclus.

Achilles had told everyone who would listen.

Patroclus.

His name is Patroclus.

Pa-tro-clus.

And yet.

Boy, would name him the instructors during training, deep frowns to their brows as they watched him struggle with the spear, with the bow, an annoyed glint to their eyes as Achilles deemed teaching him personally much more timely than listening to whatever worthless lesson they wished to impart upon the prince.

Young man, the tutors, forced into formality by the prince’s rabid glare. Phoinix too, greeting him absent minded as he shuffled through the halls, quill spinning in deft fingers and stone tablet resting against his forearm, a thoughtful turn to his lip, a lopsided grimace, as he counted and calculated and corrected. On and on and on.

Our Skops, he was to Peleus, King of Phthia, as they sat together on the warmest evenings, right by the wide open arches, hearing his stories of ocean voyages. Sharp-clawed harpies and the sweet song of sirens, of the magic and cunning of Medea, dragon teeth and golden fleece.

Your shadow, sneered by the noble boys who inhabited the palace, cowering as thunderous emerald eyes found them, the tide that was Achilles advancing towards them, threatening to drag them into the deep to drown them, squeeze them until air bubbled out of their lungs.

A quick hand reaching his forearm became their only shield.

Patroclus, stepping between them, making a tall shape with his arm instead, bent at the elbow, his hand spread open at the top.

Tree.

No, no. That was not it.

Patroclus looked towards the windows, eyes flicking back to Achilles’, then forward and back. A slight tilt to his chin, towards the doors.

Ah.

Garden. Let’s go.

He had cocked his head to the side, the hand still on the pince’s forearm squeezing, trembling ever so slightly, lower lip worried between his teeth as he made a point of remaining in sight. Of stepping up to his toes to remain in Achilles’ vision, even as the prince went to glare at the boys quickly shuffling out of the room. At their bent backs and shuffling feet and hissing whispers.

Please?

He had not been able to refuse him, of course.

Which was how they found themselves under the shadows of an olive, its gnarled trunk the perfect cradle for their afternoon.

“You should let me show them,” Achilles told him as he slipped and slipped against the bark until he laid on what little grass grew in the dappled sunlight sneaking through the wind-dance of the leaves. “They would never bother you again.”

Patroclus sat still, head tilted back, eyes closed as he enjoyed a sunny spot. He barely shook his head.

No.

Then, blindly, his hand found Achilles’ shoulder. Held him tentatively, almost reverently.

Thank you.

The prince sighed. And watched him.

The glint of sweat on his brow. A thick bead of moisture gathered near his temple, where the softest, shortest of his hairs grew and clung to his dewy skin, and rolled down leaving a path near his hairline. Down his cheekbone it went, across his jaw, meeting its end down his throat.

Right at the edge of the scar.

Dark eyes found him then, alight in the midday sun. And slowly, Patroclus slid down as well, to lay beside him upon the earth.

In the dead of night, just a few sleeps ago, he had trusted Achilles enough to show him.

“Have you tried,” he had thoughtless ask, only for his companion to roll his eyes, launching an olive pit at him, hitting him on the shoulder. Achilles had laughed, an embarrassed heat gathering at the back of his neck. “I suppose you have.”

Patroclus had shrugged.

“Is it bad then?”

A moment of silence. Then a deep sigh, nothing but silent air, deep from his gut and released through his nose.

Patroclus had signaled at him to get closer. Their shoulder had bumped, their knees knocked. They had been warm and vibrating with nervous energy as, slowly, Patroclus had opened his mouth, as if to release a sound.

Achilles made to wait patiently for him, only to realize, several seconds later, that an effort was already being made.

Air was being pushed from his lungs, through his throat, tensely, painfully, silently.

In the end, the only sounds achieved was a painful little squeak, followed by a series of wounded coughs, breathless, sore sounding. Patroclus had blushed and flapped his hand at Achilles’ fussing after that, pushing him off with a huff in the end.

Under the olive tree, Achilles’ hand found the scar, his thumb the very edge of it. He moved from it, as delicately as his hand could go, his fingers finding the fine line of a clavicle, the hollow above it. A dark freckle right where neck met shoulder

“I am supposed to be protecting you,” he said. “I promised.”

He watched Patroclus’ face. The dimple on his chin, the smattering of stubble around his jaw. His eyelashes, dark and neat every time he closed his eyes, fanned out against the purplish skin under his eyes. The slightly downward slope of his nose.

He wanted to press himself to him.

Nose to nose. To share his breath.

He did not dare. Yet.

But a warm hand did fall over his, and pressed his touch closer, firmly. And Patroclus smiled at him, with  that worried, tentative curl to full lips of his and wide, round eyes.

You do protect me.

“I just want them to see, then,” he spoke softly, as earnestly as he could muster, “what I see.”

He wanted everyone to know how clever he was. The wicked memory he had for stories, for detail, for facts. How he could recall every single thing Achilles had ever told him, not with the cold knowledge of a scholar, but with care, and warmth, and fondness. As if he were not made of bone and blood and muscle, but of memory itself, golden ichor of nostalgia running through his veins.

He wished they had seen him, running through the forest, leaping over roots, flying among the trees. Almost loosing Achilles in the brambles. How he thrived in the gardens, bright in the sunlight as his hands deftly found herbs and gathered flowers and stained his fingers green and red and traced knowledge into Achilles’ forearm.

Bruises. Cuts. Infection.

Flavor!

Rosemary, suddenly pressed under his nose.

Laughter, silent puffs of air, as the prince sneezed and sneezed.

If only they saw him, how he shone bronze under the sun, how his eyes came to life, rich brown through and through, the most fertile of earth, life ready to sprout at the first caress of rain, at the first touch of care. If they saw his hair alight, suddenly fiery mahogany, messy and rustled by the sea breeze, stiff with salt and sticky with sweat.

If they felt his hands, so careful and light, as he took Achilles’ own and held it against his chest.

If they felt his heartbeat, rabbit fast, fluttering as a bird’s, inside his ribcage.

Thank you, he mouthed, watery and thin, and made Achilles smile.

He felt like a cat again, suddenly, wanting nothing more than to jump and play and to make him smile too. He wanted to chase him, and to be chased, and to fall together onto sun-baked sand. He wanted to watch him, at the end of the day, and spot a new freckle on his nose, maybe, or a rosy tint to his shoulder.

If they were not to see, he would have him all to himself. Until they understood.

“We are not going to lessons today,” he declared. “Let’s go swimming instead.”
  
Achilles had been told plenty of times. How he had been born among the waves.

His mother had regaled him with the story, for the first time, when he had been but a small child, sitting on the sand, soaking wet and looking up at her and her void-dark eyes and red mouth, at her long, dark hair falling in cascades down her back, dripping with sea salt. She had said he ought not to fear the waves, for they had witnessed his coming. They had washed the blood off of him. They had accompanied the nereids in joyful song.

True to her word, whenever the prince found himself in water, whenever the sea called him, the waves would welcome him in, rocking him gently. They sang to him from afar, lullabies at night and jaunts in the mornings. They promised to refresh him, and to keep him safe.

Now, Patroclus was not stranger to the sea.

I have, had been his answer, when Achilles had asked if he had been at sea before. Rockier, his only other word about it, mouthed as he pointed towards the cliffs.

He could swim well enough, slightly flailing, perhaps. He did struggle at running in the sand, all the grace of the forest endearingly gone, but he was best at spotting shells and conchs and scuttling crabs, and he could skip rocks. At least thrice almost every time.

He was much more cautious about the whole affair though, that was for sure.

Achilles jumped straight into the waves, right into the ocean’s embrace, head first into the deep. Patroclus slowly waded in, feeling the sand with his feet, nervous about sinking into a hidden pit, about stepping into an eel, about busting a finger open on a stray rock.

“I would pull you out in a second,” Achilles said, hurrying to him, grasping his hands to guide him deeper in, bobbing up and down as water reached their waists, then their chests, “if anything happened.”

His answer was half and grimace and half a smile. Amused, but reluctant.

Embarrassing, he could almost hear.

“Ah, yes!” He exclaimed then, pouncing at every chance he could get at building color on his companion’s cheeks. “I would carry you in my arms to shore, very gallantly.”

Patroclus smacked his shoulder.

Wickedly, Achilles could only smile. “Or by the scruff, like a hissy, wet kitten.”

That was the moment Patroclus chose to dip completely beneath the surface.

For a moment, a single second, less perhaps, Achilles felt his heart jump all the way to his throat. Until he realized they still held each other’s hands. He squeezed them, and tugged, and waited for Patroclus to surface.

He did and, obnoxiously, absolutely on purpose, shook his head so all the water from his curls slapped Achilles in the face.

He laughed, despite the attack, but stopped short as he saw him, once again hazy around the edges in the dipping sunlight. He shone, as he had that day in the clearing. Someone otherworldly, with his richly dark eyes, bleary and stinging from the salt, eyelashes clumping together, and hair plastered to his nape, to his forehead. He stared at Achilles intently with his wide, round eyes, with that razor edge hidden behind something softer, fond and tentative and beautiful.

He wanted him to stay forever, he thought, and stopped to wonder at himself. Because he was Achilles, Aristos Achion, and no one would be able to come between them.

Olympus be my witness.

And then, once again, the spell broke. When Patroclus pursed his lips and shot a mouthful of water at him.

Achilles would like to say he had not squawked. But, then again, he was not a liar.

They laughed, loud and silent, and splashed water at each other and raced. Achilles won each time, and adored how Patroclus kept at it either way, just for the joy of moving together, of enjoying the sun, of falling into each other beneath the water, warm hand clutching at his arms, sand clouds kicking up as they rolled and wrestled.

So, of course, just as they walked to the shore, still clutching each other, breathless and joyful, disaster struck.

Looking back, Achilles thought it all ridiculous. An exaggeration.

He had hissed, as the sole of his foot found something sharp, a broken shell.

Salt water always did make injuries seem much more severe. Perhaps someone in the sea was greedy for blood, with how much it pulled from him.

Patroclus was on him immediately, directing him to sit on the sand, making Achilles lean all his weight on him as they slowly went down together, his hands carefully grasping him by the ankle, but it was too late.

She had smelled it. All the way from the bottom of the sea, perhaps.

All at once, the sea swelled and rose and fell all around them, not like rain, but heavy as rocks, freezing cold, shocking them, making them gasp and swallow the brine. An instant passed. They coughed and sputtered, Patroclus’ hand squeezed his ankle, unmoved.

A shadow fell over them, long and thin and sharp as a spear.

“What have you done?” A furious hiss, sea foam against craggy cliffs.

Thetis, daughter of the Old Man, goddess of the waters, Achilles’ mother, stood furious above them, thin lips pulled back to show her pointed teeth, her mouth a red slash lined with knives and needles.

It took Achilles a moment to think, to feel, for he knew his mother would never harm him, even furious as she was.

But Patroclus, gentle like young grass, was fair game.

Quick as a striking snake, her hand shot out and grabbed at Patroclus, yanking him harshly by the wrist. He barely had a chance to breathe in surprise, in pain, before the goddess lifted him with divine strength, up and up until his feet did not touch the sand.

He could not scream, of course, but his mouth went wide either way, his eyes big and round and terrified as he stared and stared at the goddess, at her black eyes, gold specked and shiny as meticulously polished stones, at how they burned in her fury, her delicate nose scrunched in disgust.

“What is this?” She squeezed him harder. Patroclus kicked his feet and struggled to find the ground. His bones creaked and popped and he gasped.

Achilles went to stand, only for a rogue wave to push him down and off his injured foot. “Mother.”

She rose him even higher and squinted her jeweled eyed at his palm and sneered. “Touched! Marked!”

Again, down he went, and for the first time in his life he felt betrayed by the waters, frustrated, warm at his very core, heat building and building and melting his insides, dripping inside his chest and into his stomach and pooling. “Mother!”

“Your stink of death, on my son!”

Pooling and gathering and flooding up his throat, bitter and burning.

He snarled, as beasts do.

“Thetis!”

She dropped Patroclus as if burned, threw him, really, back onto the sand. He scrambled to his feet fast as he could, stumbling and grasping at the ground.

He was terrified, Achilles could tell. He could see it in his eyes, the way he stood ready to bolt, a deer trembling with a bitter mix of fear and exhilaration. It would be completely understandable if he did leap into the tall grass. He stood before a Goddess, one who had hissed at him, who had made the ocean swell before them, waves crash dark and furious over them, who could swallow ships whole, who would not spit out even the bones of sailors if only to spite them farther.

Instead, Patroclus dropped his gaze. To the thin stream of blood coming from Achilles’ foot.

He did not look a Thetis again. Did not ask for permission. He simply grabbed at his own chiton and dropped to his knees, pressing the fabric to the cut, a stubborn furrow to his brow.

No one moved, as trembling hand applied pressure, sweetly soft, preciously warm,

“Mother.” Achilles did not look at her. He thought he might boil over if he did. “Leave us.”

“He is mortal,” she said, voice unperturbed, uncaring, “he will die.”

Hot anger, at the very back of his mouth. A storm approaching.

“Leave us.”

“He stinks of death and he will be gone soon.”

A string deep in his heart snapped. Venom dripped from his tongue.

“And I with him, then,” he said, and did not lie. His hand reached Patroclus’ shoulder, and held him close. Only then did he look at her, green eyes blazing, daring. He loved her, truly, as any child loves their mother, but he thought he could hate her. He could loath her very name if she were to take Patroclus from him. “Leave us.”

She hissed, terrible needle teeth, like an eel’s, exposed in warning.

But she relented. And whipped back, hair heavy as it dragged behind her, then floating in curls on the water, inky black and swirling.

She dipped beneath the waves.

The world stilled around them, silent but for the gulls laughing in the distance.

Trembling hands held his ankle, pressed his wound so delicately Achilles barely fell the sting anymore.

“Patroclus,” he said, and watched dark eyes flit to his, to the ocean, back to the wound. “Patroclus,” he repeated and brought his hand to his companion’s cheek. Waited for him to lift his head to meet his eyes fully.

Patroclus did, worried tilt to his brow.

“I promised,” Achilles told him, so soft he might as well be shifting sand.  “I will not let anyone harm you. Even her.”

It took a moment, one of heavy, contemplative silence. But Patroclus did nod, and sighed, and leaned into Achilles touch. His eyelids dropped, lashes thick and fanning straight down. His skin had gone warmer, slightly rosy, under the sun, a little dry on the high planes of his cheek. On the side of his nose, a new freckle had sprouted already, barely so.

Achilles stared and smiled, and struggled to breathe for a moment.

Him, with a handful of Patroclus, beautiful, wickedly clever. Good. Careful and brave, sometimes stubborn like a damn mule.

“Patroclus.”

Achilles, he said, with no sound, and repeated, mouthing ever syllable carefully, clearly. A-chi-lles.

The prince smiled, and waited patiently for his wound to be checked.

“It’s not even that bad, is it?”

Patroclus shook his head. Nothing but a nick. Then sighed once again. Deflated. Relieved. Suddenly exhausted.

Together they stood, Patroclus insisting on taking most of his weight as they walked together, Achilles’ arm placed around his shoulder, foot barely touching the ground as they hopped all the way out of the sand dunes, into the long grass, and towards the shadowy halls of the palace, all cool marble and echoing laughter.
  
Patroclus had been the one to dress his wound, in the end.

He had done it in their room, both of them sitting on the smaller bed, Achilles with his back resting against the wall and leg nestled over all the available pillows. He had watched intently as Patroclus washed his foot with cool water, a small basin resting precariously over their blankets, and a soft piece of linen folded over several times. Then, somehow, there were herbs on his hands, being crushed between his fingers, staining his skin green and releasing fresh scents into the air between them.

“Where did you even get that?”

A hand brushing air aside absentmindedly.

Around.

“When?”

A thoughtful tilt to his head, eyes up at the ceiling. That same hand, going round and round back, one finger up.

Yesterday.

That tall shape again, arm bent at the elbow, fingers splayed out like branches.

Garden.

“Well,” how had Achilles not noticed? He had seen him collecting shells and small rocks, grabbing small flowers, perhaps, but he had not thought about their use. He smiled. How resourceful, his Patroclus. “I am glad you did. Machaon would have looked very unimpressed with me.”

Patroclus smiled, scrunching his nose and puffing air through his nostrils, in what could have been a laugh.

Achilles continued, “the great Aristos Achion, brought down by rogue piece of shell.”

He laughed, as Patroclus mimicked inscribing a tablet with the story with a chisel, to preserve it for posterity.

Then, he went on with his work, smiling as he wrapped a long piece of cloth round and round his foot, firmly, tightness instinctively just right.

Achilles watched him, thoughts back to his mother. To the ocean swelling around them. To the bruise already growing dark on Patroclus’ right wrist.

“Do you have a mother,” he asked very quietly, and almost regretted it, watching deft hands still mid movement for several seconds. Patroclus nodded eventually, and went on working. He paused again, only to make that round and round backwards move with his hand once again.

Had.

“I am sorry.”

Patroclus shrugged with one shoulder. Began securing the bandage with a knot. He gestured once more, pushing a hand from his front, arching over his shoulder, thrice.

Long ago.

“Was she kind?”

He nodded once again, much more fervently.

Yes. Kind.

Then he pointed towards the window ledge, where a bowl of fruit was kept stock for the prince. Then at his own mouth, as he mouthed: sweet.

He pointed at a lyre leaning against the far wall: music. Pointed at his chest, hit it his pointer finger several times: love.

Loved music.

He rubbed his hands together, and smiled and he mouthed: soft.

Then, his shoulders dropped, and he pointed at his own temple, tapped his it softly and shook his head. Pronounced as clearly as he could: not all there. Sometimes.

Thought a bit more about it, shook his head more harder: most times.

“What was her name,” he asked, and automatically offered his hand for Patroclus to take, if he wanted it.

It had become a common thing for them, for Patroclus to write into his skin, softly brushing letters over his palm, on his forearm. Once over his shoulder. Not everything could be pointed at and made into a sign, try as they might, after all. And, truth be told, Achilles quite liked the feeling of warm skin over his own, a hand to rest his over, a single moment of warm stillness between them.

P-H-I-L-O-M-E-L-A

“Philomela,” he said, “beautiful name.” They smiled at each other. “And do you look like her?”

Patroclus dropped his gaze to his own hands, turned them this way and that, watched the last rays of sunlight sneak among the branches of almond trees outside and flit through their window, dying golden light making their marble floor glimmer and shine, their sheets warm. Patroclus looked back at him, and presented his forearm, pointed at himself.

It still took Achilles a moment to get it, but he loved how fluent he was becoming in their secret tongue.

“Your skin?”

And eyes, Patroclus almost said, sitting much taller, his back straighter, almost proud of the fact as he tapped at his under eye with his index finger twice. His other hand went to grab at one of his curls, one Achilles noticed constantly, which bounced behind his ear and refused to lay flat. Hair too.

“Ah.” He could almost image a little Patroclus, looking up at his dear mother with those round, dark eyes and timid smile, just to find a mirror. And her, with tumbling curls of dark hair, a crown of mahogany in the sunlight, as they sat on their unknown, rocky beach and skipped stones. “So she was beautiful too, then.”

Silence.

A pillow colliding with Achilles’ face.

He sputtered and snapped to look at Patroclus, only to find him flushing furiously.

Beautiful too, he had said.

Beautiful, he had called him.

He had not objections at his accidental confession. So he simply shrugged, then grabbed the pillow and launched it right back.

They fell asleep next to each other that night.

And when morning came, Achilles watched Patroclus lay under the morning sun up close, and felt the slow, warm, and humid puffs of air from his nose, from his parted lips, watched the trembling of his eyelids, the slight flutter of his eyelashes, fanned dark against his cheek.

His heart swelled.

And he dared.

He scooted forward, and pressed his nose to Patroclus’, insistent, a little ridiculous, and watched as he opened his eyes. Bleary at first, crusted with sleep-sand. Then suddenly attentive and sharp as rich brown met green.

Nothing was said.

They stared at each other, nose against nose, breaths mingling.

They smelled of night sweat and morning breath. Of sea-salt and sunshine and dried sand. Fig and plum and berry. They were warm. They did not move. Barely blinked.

Together they stayed, and would stay, and listened to the first notes of birdsong while the world came to life around them.

Nose to nose, they smiled.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Today is my birthday.

Written on a spare piece of parchment and slid across the kitchen table, right besides the pitcher of mixed fruit juice they shared. They were surrounded by the bustling cooks and their children, running side to side, returning with wild berries, a basketful of eggs, a jug of goat’s milk. Bucket after bucket of fresh water from a nearby stream. They preferred it to the echoing emptiness of the dining hall.

Achilles stopped mid mouthful of bread topped with sliced figs and glazed with honey. Sprinkled with goat cheese.

It all fell down back onto his plate with a resounding splat.

Patroclus smiled, the way that made his nose scrunch ever so slightly, and reached for the parchment once more, along with the pen he kept at hand always, behind his ear or hanging off his belt.

Sixteen.

Underlined twice.

It took a moment for Achilles’ mind to catch up, and once it did, he knew there was no stopping himself.

He pounced from his chair, sending it toppling to the ground, and quickly rounded the table to collide onto his companion’s waiting arms. He lifted him off his chair, godly strength making it all easy, too easy, and squeezed him close. Patroclus’ arms came around him eventually, holding himself up by Achilles’ shoulders. He shook as he giggled silently.

Then, Achilles held him at arm’s length, by the shoulders. “I asked you,” he exclaimed, and then narrowed his eyes, “and you distracted me!”

He had. Clever, sharp, stubborn, Patroclus, dodging his question by pointing at the horizon and signing at something, something, new. Tall shapes made with his arms, large and wide and pointed at the top. Hands mimicking the movement of the waves, pointing towards the horizon once more.

Ship, Achilles guessed eventually. You see a ship? The blinding smile that answered him, the excited nod at their new sign, had been enough to keep him from asking once more.

And it had been on purpose, surely. Not a single gift had the prince been able to prepare. Nothing at all. And that had to be his sweet Patroclus’ point, surely. He wanted nothing, to bother no one, despite the fact he ought to have everything.

Too bad for him then, because Achilles did nothing half-way.

“Anything you want to do today, we will do,” he said, finally, cradling his companion’s hands against his chest, pressing them over his heart.

Patroclus’ smile was soft as shook his head slightly. It took the prince insisting thrice to get him to relent, and take a thoughtful stance, shifting slightly from side to side, nervously glancing towards a nearby window. He bit his lip as he signed something incredibly familiar, a tall shape with his arms.

“We go to the garden every day, Patroclus.” Achilles frowned as he watched insistent arms shape again. “Not it?” Eventually, his arm was taken and guided into the same, bent shape. Two trees. Patroclus’ other arm did it as well. Three.

Many trees.

Forest.

“You want to go back?”

A hesitant nod. His index finger tapping at his under eye, then pressing into the prince’s sternum.

Show you.

They smiled, together, mischievous as only they could be, in their little world for two.

“To the forest we go, then.” Achilles grabbed his plate, tilted it so everything fell in a messy heap onto Patroclus’. Some of the cooks groaned at the sight, but no one said a word. There was no stopping them, as they grabbed the platter, their cups of warm, honeyed milk, and they hurried out.

“Do not even ask me about lessons,” said the prince, as they puttered around their room, eating and packing, wiping their hands on each other, Patroclus’ shooting worried glances towards the door. “We are going.”

No matter what.

They snuck through their window and into the garden beyond, through the courtyard and towards the back, where the orchards were worked. They ran through the endless lines of fruit trees, hand in hand, and strolled into the stables like they belonged no where else.

The stable hand had no patience for them. And so, in an effort to be rid of the princeling he served - Patroclus wasn’t really a bother - he readied a horse as fast as he could go. Even packed them provisions, perhaps in an attempt to keep them out of his hair for longer.

Before anyone could miss them, they raced through the gates and to the fields. Achilles laughed and gave a shout, joyful, completely delighted by the speed, by the feeling of arms around tightening his middle, a warm body pressing onto his back, dark curls tickling the back of his neck.

By midday, they had made it to the edge of the woods.

As excited as Achilles was, he was still caught off guard. He busied himself with the horse, tying the reins to a nearby tree by a stream, preparing to leave the animal for the day, possibly until morning. Patroclus leaned by the same tree and untied his sandals, securely trying to loose leather laces to a branch. Achilles followed suit, as expectant dark eyes found him.

Before the prince could ask about it, he was tugged. Grabbed by his forearm and guided between the trees, away from the beaten path made by hunters and their mounts, and into the brambles.

Suddenly, they were running, ducking between branches, leaping over roots, their feet thumping against the earth. Loose soil clouded behind them, mud clung to their calves, to the hems of their chitons, but they did not stop.

Achilles chased Patroclus, like he had that first day. Once again they were wild things, joyful and free, and he wondered and wondered if his companion truly wasn’t part a nymph. He watched his skin grow dewy, his hair wilder in the spring breeze. They rolled down hills of tall grass, and emerged ruffled and energetic, racing to the top, their bare feet gripping the earth, digging into mud.

Patroclus showed him everything, bouncy in his excitement, radiant with delight.

A wild fig tree, tall atop a hill, heavy with honey drops. A babbling brook, tiny silver fish slipping between stones. A flowering plum tree, a fox’s den, deer sign and bird song on every tree.

As the sun dipped and the wood’s shade grew colder, Achilles found himself tugged once again through the underbrush, guided by a warm hand, cheeks sore from smiling.

Together, the slipped beneath low branches, and found themselves covered by ancient trunks, thick with age, gnarled by time. Oak trees with roots so mighty they sore off the ground, surrounded them, hiding them from the moon and the breeze, as they walked to a certain, shady spot.

Nervously, Patroclus smiled, and slipped into the hollow space beneath a mighty trunk. Achilles did not hesitate to follow him.

There wasn’t much, though he hadn’t exactly been expecting there to be anything at all. A pile of leaves, long gone dry and rotten. Herbs turned to dust, kept for too long, tied with thin strips of yellowed fabric and hung off knobs on the root-ceiling. Smooth, flat stones, perfect for skipping, lined neatly on a felled branch, fashioned into shelving.

Not much else.

Just that, and Patroclus, taking as little space as possible, huddling in a corner, eyes twinkling obsidian in the near blackness of the deep woods, of the incoming night, of their sight, still spoiled by sunlight.

He had lived there, thought the prince, as he busied himself pushing old leaves out, as he gathered armfuls of fresh bedding to share. All alone, Patroclus had lived there. How long, he wanted to ask, but instead he simply watched his companion trace old patterns in the bark, his name written with a sharp stone, as if to remind himself.

Soon, almost complete darkness took them, and their eyes grew accustomed to their surroundings. They shuffled in the too-short space, bended their knees to lay together, and sighed in unison, suddenly exhausted from the day.

“Were you lonely,” asked the prince, eventually. “When you lived here.”

Achilles watched him, thanking the moon for sneaking through the branches to outline their shapes. He waited, as Patroclus thought and stared at the little pieces of sky, at the corners of constellations peeking through root and earth and leaf. Eventually, he patted the dirt beneath them softly, fondly, as if praising an old, reliable horse, and brought that same hand to tap at his chest, above his heart.

I love it here.

Quickly, he turned, and found the prince’s arm blindly, as if he knew his shape perfectly in darkness, in blindness. He laid on his side, and hugged it to his chest, softly laid his forehead on Achilles’ shoulder and, though the prince could not read his lips, though Patroclus did not sign or write over his skin, he thought he understood.

I like it better with you.

Achilles smiled. His cheeks burned and ached as he turned to lay his head against dark curls, redolent with dried grass and living earth. Of sweat and soon-to-come rain.

“We should do this every year,” he said, whispered into the dark, “on your birthday, just the two of us.”

He closed his eyes, and sighed happily, with Patroclus clinging to his arm, nodding as he found the crook of his neck to hide in.

“We will do this every year.” A new promise.

They shook with joy.

Then they slept.
  
They were eighteen the year they kissed for the first time.

Patroclus’ knees were stripped raw, tender to touch and bleeding thickly down his calfs. He was speckled with scratches and his hair had become a bird’s nest, littered with dried leaves and twigs, knotted and standing on ends.

He had fallen off a tree. Right into a thorny bush.

It had been his idea, excitedly pointing at ripe pomegranates near the very top of an ancient fruit tree, still safe from being plucked and puckered by the spring birds looking to feed their young. Half-way up, a branch had snapped beneath his feet, sending him tumbling to the dry earth and bramble. Achilles, already near the top, fruit in hand, had all but leapt to him, heart at his throat.

The relief at finding him sitting up, embarrassed tint to his cheeks and ears, had been almost overwhelming.

He had ignored the silent protest and smacks on his shoulder and simply carried him, one arm at his back and the other hooked under his knees.

They sat near a stream, Patroclus’ legs cradled on the prince’s lap as he leaned to pool water on his cupped hands, carefully pouring it over the wounds, washing blood and dirt, assessing the damage. Thankfully, nothing too deep or worrisome.

“You are much better at this tham me,” he muttered. “Your hands are lighter.”

They were also warmer. Softer, despite the callouses on each and every pad of his fingers. Careful and tender, yet deft and precise.

The healer’s room was lucky to have him.

Achilles had been so proud of him, the day Machaon himself, their most senior healer, had come asking for Patroclus. He had been impressed, it seemed, after examining the burns he had healed from one of the cook’s children, who had been a little too eager to sneak roasted nuts from his mother’s pot.

We will need as many healers as we can get, he had said, sooner rather than later.

Steady hands mimicked music, strumming and plucking at the invisible strings of an intangible lyre.

Achilles huffed, “it is not the same,” and slowly pressed a strip of fabric, taken from his own cape and saturated with cool water and crushed herbs, to the wound. Patroclus hissed and tensed, but remained still. “You see? I cannot hurt a lyre.”

He concentrated intently on being careful, of gently cleaning and healing, keeping his hands balanced on the knife’s edge between firm and cautious. That, until a finger tapped the bridge of his nose and made its way up, all the way to his forehead, than down to the very tip of his nose and back up. Again and again, softly.

“I am frowning, hm?” That same finger, tapping insistently between his brows. “Yes, yes, I will stop it, lest I develop wrinkles.”

Dark eyes, rolling at him. Curls bouncing as Patroclus leaned in and rested his head agains’t Achilles’ shoulder, watching him work. He leaned in as well, cheek against curls, and breathed deeply. That forest smell, pine and birch and morning dew.

Sharper than usual.

“Your hair is full of twigs.” A shrug he felt against his bicep. “It will bother you in your sleep.” A huff, warm air caressing his clavicle. “Right, then.”

Soon, the wounds were clean and dressed, well enough to last until they returned home. Achilles went to cup Patroclus’ face, curling his fingers around his jaw, index at the hinge and thumb resting carefully at the corner of his eyes. He proceeded plucking stay leaves off of him, finding brittle twigs and maneuvering them out of his curls.

Dark eyes followed his every move, fond and attentive. So, so warm and so, so deep.

They did not notice the change in the air between them. Not until their noses were almost touching.

Thinking back, Achilles would never be able to decide if he was the one who leaned in the rest of the way, or if it had been Patroclus. He would remember the familiar brush of nose against nose, the warm breath ghosting over his chin, brown eyes so close to his own he could spot and count the flecks of honey in them. He would remember chapped lips, and the slightest taste of pomegranate juice.

He did not move after that first brush of lips against his own. For several seconds just lost in the feeling, the tentative touch.

Patroclus leaned back, flicked his eyes to Achilles’ own and waited, gaze steadily growing nervous, worried, all the way to terrified. He made to pull back, to get off of him and escape, nearly scrambling as his breath grew rapid and panicked, only to stop as the prince’s hand shot out to grab his by the elbow, to hold him in place.

Very slowly, tentatively, Achilles hand slid higher, fingers brushing where neck met shoulder, the dark freckle there, and up Patroclus’ neck and up even more to hold him by the jaw once again, thumb brushing a stray scratch on his cheekbone.

“May I,” he asked, so quietly he did not recognize his own voice, always so sure and steady.

Eyes widening. A barely there nod.

He leaned forward, pressed their foreheads together, hand sliding even more and digging into curls, holding gently in place as their noses bumped and Achilles examined those almost black eyes he loved,  incredibly full. So many things they held, terrible and terrifying, beautiful and grand.

He nuzzled against his companion and was rewarded with a stuttering intake of breath. It set him alight. From the top of his head to his toes, he warmed and hungered and wanted.

He had never wanted something so much, in all his life.

Their lips brushed once more. Then pressed together, firmly.

Patroclus went with him, pressed forwards, closed his eyes, and Achilles delighted. He was so, so close, he could have counted his eyelashes if he wished, he could find constellations upon his cheeks. He could taste his breath, still sweet from their fruit.

They did not move much. Simply remained, the world quieting around them, birdsong and the babble of the stream, the rustling of leave in the wind. It all went down and shrunk and shrunk until everything was reduced to the point they touched, and nothing else.

They were together. And, for the first time, they were complete.
  
They laid together, completely bare, the year Patroclus turned twenty and one.

Hidden by the tall grass and wild flowers, Achilles watched his lover relax, back flat on the earth and eyes focused on the passing clouds above them. One of his hands played with the prince’s hair, a curl wrapped around his finger and twirled over and over again.

Achilles did not want to move, face tucked into the crook of Patroclus neck, quietly talking.

Complaining, really.

“I do not see the point,” he said, his words shuddering, shaky, as a finger traced his spine, softly carving a path between the wings of his shoulder, down to the small of his back and all the way up to the base of his neck. “Everyone fears a war to come, but no one does anything about it.” Deft fingers, digging into his hair, finding his skull and scratching at it gently.

“My father is talking about preparing the farmers and fishers too, if it comes to it.” Achilles scoffed at the idea. They had the Myrmidons, after all, trained over sand, under the sweltering sun, day in and out. The strongest, most prepared of soldiers, able to keep pace, at least for a moment, with Aristos Achion himself. “Who will feed our people, when they are too busy learning to hold a spear?”

Patroclus’ hand did not falter.

“And he speaks of councils,” he sighed, and buried his nose against warm skin, relaxed instantly at the smell of sweat and musk and fresh grass. “He means for me to be present as he speaks with visiting kings and generals and noble dignitaries.”

Achilles thought of chariots and glistening horses. Of golden laurel crowns and fine silks and furs, the softest of wools and lightest linens. Rich blues and purples and greens. Hints of jewels, rings upon soft fingers. Fake smiles and conniving eyes, hands ready to grab and pull and tear and own.

He thought of kings drinking in his home. Laughing, eager for a fight, for glory.

He thought of his father, eager for his son’s legend, as his mother spoke of eternity.

And of that single monarch, the root of their ailments, pushing for blood to water their fields, in the name of justice.

Achilles grimaced.

“And all for a lost prince no one remembers.”

He spit every word.

The hands on him stopped. Stuttered. Then found a place to rest in the middle of his back.

Achilles rose to his elbows and glanced down at his love, at his kiss swollen lips, at his messy hair spilling like a halo around his head. Patroclus would want cut it soon, he knew, so he would enjoy the length while he still could. They smiled at each other, Patroclus’ hand finding the back of the blond’s head, bunching the hair there.

Enough complaining.

The feeling was divine, and Achilles could not help but to lean forward and kiss him. For the hundredth time that day. A few hundred more could not hurt, he thought, as he pressed his lips to Patroclus’ forehead, then to each eyelid, down a path of freckles that stretched from his cheekbone and towards his mouth. He held him by the jaw, fingers digging into his new, fuller beard, not so boyish and patchy anymore, and kissed and kissed and kissed, like he had been made for it.

As if they were both made for it.

Made to fit together, to slot into each other, as dovetail joints did, like they were a single being, each holding half of a single, fluttering heart inside their chests.

The separated only when their lungs burned and their lips ached and stung, and even then their foreheads remained pressed together, their noses brushing as they laid sharing air, warm and slightly damp, and terribly sweet.

The furious beating of hoofs against dry soil brought them out of their personal bubble.

Achilles had to hold Patroclus down before he shot up to sit, quickly shifting until he was completely over him, covering as best he could pressing him onto the soil and ensuring the tall grass kept them from view.

Soon, the thunderous entourage passed through the druid’s path near their clearing, horses whining and huffing as they struggled through the underbrush at full speed, their riders gleaming in what little sunshine snuck through the trees. They clanked in their armor, frightening the birds and critters around, sending the chittering creatures into a scramble, their flight at least distracting them from looking closer into the grass.

They passed by, a fluttering flag leaving a path of purple and gold in their stead.

The quiet they left was defeating. Only Patroclus’ harried breaths broke it and kept Achilles in the moment.

“Enemy’s men,” he spoke outlaud, confident in the fact they were far gone, sitting back on his hunches, still over Patroclus, straddling him. “Riding inland.”

As always, silence answered him. He hurried to glance down, ready to read lips or interpret signs, to receive the caress of letters on his skin, but found nothing of the sort.

Patroclus looked ill. Pale and tense, hands shaking where they rested on Achilles’ bare thigh, on his hip. His head was turned towards the path, hair on his eyes, and when Achilles brushed it back, he found those wide, round, frightened eyes he knew so well. It brought back images of the old oak, of its twisting roots, of the boy cradled among them, dirty and gaunt. It made him think of the dead rabbits, strung by their feet, bleeding onto the fields.

“Don’t worry.” Achilles hurried to take his hands, held them over his own heart, for his love to feel. “I am here.”

He was. And he would always be. And while he had breath in his lungs and blood running through his veins, no man would be able to touch Patroclus.

No sword, or spear, or arrow.

No beast, of man, or king.

Not even a god.

He took those beloved hands, and pressed a kiss to each one, smiled as Patroclus finally turned and looked up at him. Then he gently pressed those knuckles to his forehead, remained, and said nothing more.

He did not need to.

He had promised, after all. A long time ago.
  
They almost didn’t make it, their Twenty-fifth year.

Phoinix had all but burst into their room, out of breath and hair all out of sorts, his long beard frazzled as he ran his fingers through the coarse hair.

He had found them just about to leave for the day. They had taken their time in the early morning, laying next to each other with their roaming hands and stuttering breaths, and had eventually rolled from their mattress and dressed for travel, for galloping horse riding, for climbing trees and dipping into rivers and rolling down hills.

Their provisions were ready, even, heavy on a leather satchel, currently hanging wide open on the prince’s hands, as Patroclus stood on the other side of the room and tried to aim a nectarine into its maw.

They stood frozen, for a moment. Then stood very straight, hands behind their backs.

“Prince Achilles,” a stooping salute, much more formal than usual, “Patroclus,” a nod, then a deep intake of breath. The old man had no time for their antics, it seemed, “your father requests your presence at the table this morning.”

“Right now?” He glanced towards Patroclus, at his wide eyes, a fox caught with a goose’s neck clamped between its jaws. Achilles smiled lightly at this, could not help it. He was not ashamed of what that guilty look did to him. “We were just about to leave.”

Phoinix sighed, his shoulders drooped. He had grown old, truly old, in the last couple of years, his wrinkles so deep with worry and grief he reminded Achilles of the old oaks in the forest, of their gnarled bark.

“I am afraid,” he began, almost weary, quite gravely, “that this is a matter of utmost importance.”

The prince could not stop the scoff that slipped through his lips, immediately defensive at the mere thought of abandoning their plans, of breaking his promise. “And my plans are not then? Of utmost importance?”

A hand found his shoulder before he could go on - familiar, beloved - and squeezed ever so gently.

Beside him, Patroclus smiled lightly, nodding.

Of course he would be fine with it. But Achilles thought he shouldn’t be.

“I do not know how long this will take,” his own hand found Patroclus’, but then their bag of provisions was taken, and carefully placed on a nearby chair. Then, he jutted his chin towards Phoinix.

Go.

He then plopped onto their bed, still undone, cushions in disarray and blankets thrown haphazardly on top of it all. He smiled still, and cocked his head to the side, an expectant look on his eyes.

I will wait.

Achilles did not move immediately, hesitant as he never was, but eventually turned a questioning eye towards the old advisor.

“A couple hours,” was his answer, with steepled fingers and calculating turn to his brows, “just to discuss the movement of the scouts we are to send by the week’s end. Nothing too difficult.”

Ah, but everything about war is difficult. Everything was to be carefully planned and thoroughly laid out, for the most minute of mistakes meant the loss of men. The loss of lives. A single mistake, and the wailing of mother and wives filled the air and starving, orphaned children would to roam the streets. One fouled decision: salted earth and hunger.

“I will be back soon.”

Patroclus nodded.

And so, the prince had been stuck at the table, with his father and advisors, all morning.

His feet tapped a constant thud-thud-thud against the marble floor, his knees bounced rapidly when he sat. Once or twice an annoyed huff left his lips, unsuccessfully disguised as him clearing his throat to speak up.

Perhaps it had been childish of him, if his father’s sideway glances were any indication, but he wanted it absolutely known that he was not there by choice. That he had something else to do.

Still, he studied the map, the blue ink marking the runs of rivers, the golden paths etched from town, to village, to city, the greenish seas that were the forest and plains, mountain ranges carefully labeled. There were bronze markers for the homes of their allies. There was Thebes and Sparta, of course, Delphi and Athens. There was Ithaca, Argos, Mycenae. Phthia, marked in old gold, patina build from ages of use.

And there, marker bright silver, rendered glossy by now years of hands worrying over the serpentine shape, Opus.

The root of their problems.

Tiny, silver pyramids stretched along the maps. Cavalries and scouts far into the map. Inland, along the coasts, hidden among the trees, galloping through tall grass, sneaking through mountain paths.

An invasion, it had been called.

Search party, correction hissed by the strange, lonely king responsible, lips pulled back to show his yellowed teeth, his nose scrunched as if mid-growl.

A fucking excuse, whispered by Achilles himself, in the dark, face hidden on a trembling Patroclus’ neck.

It would be hours before Achilles could make his way through the halls, sprinting through passageways jumping out a window and into a garden, leaping over a line of bushes, feet pounding over manicured, crawling vines.

He stopped, breath harsh, chest rising and falling as the tides.

On his window ledge sat Patroclus, back to the outside, sunshine on his hair.

He turned, as Achilles approached, and smiled.

Hands found the prince, his jaw, his shoulder, and he was pulled inside.

He kissed Patroclus, got lost in him, all thoughts of warring factions left at the table.

They ran through the garden, and into the orchards, like they had that first birthday together.

The stable hand’s son greeted them, his father’s back long ago gone bad and too frail for work.

Soon, they galloped through the gates, into the fields.

Achilles did not think of the houses overtaken by vines, abandoned by people, filled instead by a mix of grief and the echo of rage. Did not look at drying fields, and the women fighting to work them, self-taught hold to their sickles, aching arms growing stronger, defiant shine to their eyes. Children at their ankles or strapped to their backs.

Their horses whinnied and neighed in protest, the smell of burning in the air, the electricity of fury pulling them taut.

They stood on the edge of the forest, backs to the tree line, their horses stomping the ground lightly, hooves digging at dried grass, searching for tender spring seedlings.

Patroclus looked on, towards the horizon, at the skyline beyond the mountains. At a column of smoke billowing steadily towards the clouds, blocking the sun.

We are at war, thought Achilles, who was a warrior and could smell blood in the air. Who would sometimes thirst for it. Who hated it all the same.

We are at war, and he looked at Patroclus, with his light hands and his soft eyes. Who could also smell blood in the air, but knew how to stifle it. Who brought in the perfume of fresh herbs, of wet clay, and sweet honey and clean cloth, sunshine dried and soft.

Patroclus, who healed their warriors in-training, their scars his doing, soft, pinkish new skin.

Patroclus, who worried about their men, the Myrmidons, leaving as scouts, as rangers, as messengers, with small pots of healing salves tucked into their bags.

Pa-tro-clus, with too much compassion. Who looked afraid.

No harm will come to you, he had told him. And meant it. Still did. Forever would.

Achilles kissed his knuckles and smiled, then tugged him forward.

In the forest, they would not worry about the war stirring around them. Or about men with too much blood in their heads and seed in their loins, swords hungry for battle. They could forget about scheming kings and noble rats. About the powerful man demanding justice for long-ago forgotten crimes, alone, in his castle by an unknown sea.

They stepped forward together, as they always did and, for the day, they were wild things once again. Lost among the trees.
  
A year went by. Everything had changed, right along with the seasons.

Achilles found himself standing alone in the beach, long before sunrise.

Cold waves lapped at his feet, finished waking him, sunk his toes more and more into the sand, as if trying to hold him place, to invite him farther in. His eye were less heavy, he noticed, as he stepped into the waves. He glanced around, and began his search.

A shell. Small, but bright white and intact, despite the battering of the current. Pocketed.

A crab, spooked by his steps. He watched it scramble to water, claw snapping at him the whole way.

“Whatever are you doing, my child?” Waves crashing against the cliffs, sea spray kissing still-cool sand.

“Looking for a gift, mother.”

A tiny conch, a perfect little spiral, cream and yellow. Pocketed too.

“A gift.”

“For Patroclus.” Achilles looked towards the far side of the shore, squinted his eyes as he looked for any sort of glimer in the dipping moonlight.

“Whatever has he done to deserve a gift?” She hissed as she spoke, a snake displacing sand in her path. “Least of all, one from you.”

He scoffed, and refused to allow her any further insults, or even grace her with a look.

“Exist.” That was his answer.

Before he could hear his mother hiss, as he knew she would, he took off running, swift as a storm, footing sure and firm even on the wet sand.

He came to a sudden stop, heels finding purchase in the slippery shore. His mother glided, perfectly smooth, and stood beside him.

“You insist on keeping him,” she said, then clenched her jaw and spoke through her teeth, “why?”

Achilles kept his eyes on the shoreline, on the coming and going of the waves, on the sea foam soaking onto the sand. “I’ve told you before,” he took two steps, found an almost round pebble, marble white, and pocketed it. “you simply refuse to believe me.”

“He is mortal.”

“And I love him either way.”

“He will die.” There she goes, he thought. “He stinks of it.”

He wanted to scream at her. To growl and hiss and roar. Instead, he walked, the quick movement of his legs keeping him steady enough.

“I would not allow it.” He would not. He would fight anyone, he would fight her, he would fight Poseidon and Zeus. He would fight lord Hades himself for his soul. He would crumble the whole kingdom of the dead into dust to find him. “Not for a long time.”

There was silence, for a moment. Then a tired sigh.

“He has already cheated death once. That seldom happens twice, my child.”

Achilles could sense something in his mother’s voice. It hissed with disgust, seaspray on rocks, but beyond it, there was something else. Closer to apprehension, to sadness. She worried about him, perhaps. About her son, who had walked on the edge of mortality and divinity all his childhood, on the shores of greatness among the gods, only to turn away from it all at the sight of hazy sunlight and big, dark eyes.

Swayed away from forever, for a chance at now and him.

Her only child, torn away from her embrace, for someone who would last but a flicker in time.

Oh, but what a flicker he was.

Perhaps she knew something was coming.

He did not want to hear it.

He wanted a damn worthy present.

Silence stretched between them. Achilles looked and looked around. He walked the shores, and she followed him, until a sigh left her.

The sea rose around them, reached deeply into the land, all the way to the rocks kissed only by the highest tides. Between his ankles, fish swam, cool currents danced around him and, suddenly, backtracked, pulled back and left slick, wavy sand in its wake, glittering steadily in the diminishing moonlight.

There, where the sea had risen, he found it.

A glossy conch, as large as his hand, perfectly smooth. Bright white, striped throughout with spiraling yellow markings.

Just what he wanted.

Achilles looked towards the horizon, and bowed his head as thanks. To his nereid aunts, or his grandfather, the old man. Perhaps to Poseidon, the king of the deep. Or to the ocean itself. Whoever had decided to aid him, to send him a piece of their treasure throve.

He turned towards his mother next, to the flat line that was her red mouth, the statuesque stillness of her visage.

“It is almost sunrise,” he told her.

“I should have taken you to the bottom of the sea when I could.”

Achilles smiled. “I would have driven you insane, mother. My aunts would’ve never forgiven you.” He turned on his heels. “Farewell.”

He walked towards the edge of her world, where grass met sand, and did not need to turn back to know she looked at him still, with her black marble eyes.

For once, he did not run on his way back. He walked, and glanced around at the world, at the dark lifting around him, the pink hue of the soon-to-come sunrise. The earliest birdsong, the morning dew sparkling over the grass, the sounds of the servants just beginning to stir in the kitchens and gardens.

He climbed through his window, heart at his throat, and smiled at the sight greeting him.

Patroclus slept still, curled on his side, hidden among their blankets and nestled by their multitude of pillows, just as he had left him. He breathed steadily, slow and deep, through slightly parted lips. His curls were a mess, sticking up and tangled into a dark crown around his head.

Achilles sat on the edge of their bed and watched him, waited as the sun finally peeked over the blue horizon and spilled golden light over them. Only then did he allow himself to touch, to gently coax his lover from sleep. He caressed his bare chest, found the v at the base of his throat and wished to kiss the hollow there. His fingers traced the fine line of his clavicle, all the way to the peak of his shoulder.

He leaned, and pressed their noses together. Watched those eyelashes, neat and dark, flutter, dark eyes open, crusted by sleep-sand.

“Good morning,” he almost laughed, watching the bleary, confused look Patroclus answered him with. Achilles kissed his bottom lip, the dimple on his chin, his jaw. “And happy birthday, philtatos.”

A lazy smile. Arms sleepily coming around his waist, holding him in place.

It was divine, the warm hold of his dear heart.

He felt terrible.

He kissed more. Cheeks, and beard, and chest, his bare stomach. The peaks of his hips. Each and every ribs, the hollow of his clavicle, and right above his pulse.

“I love you,” he said, between every breath.

I’m sorry, he wanted to say.

Instead, he sat back, above Patroclus, straddling his hips, smiling at ruffled curls, and still-hazy eyes.

“I found something for you.”

He stretched, and reached the conch, left forgotten on the edge of their bed.

It shined in the sunlight, perfectly respladescent, strangely iridescent, the way pure, milky opals are. It looked precious, even more so in Patroclus’ hands, gentle fingers turning and tracing. He brought it up, against his ear, and leaned into it as he listened to the ocean song inside.

His smile, slow and slightly lopsided. The corners of his eyes, crinkly with mirth.

He loved it.

Achilles smiled, proud of himself, triumphant and golden, and Patroclus huffed, suddenly sitting up, crashing their lips together.

They giggled into each other, Achilles much too loud, Patroclus silent as a spring breeze.

But eventually, their feet found the chilled marble floor.

They sat together, wistfully looking through the window, at the almond tree almost sneaking its wispy branches into the room, at the flower bushes and fountains which lined the garden. The hills bellow, rolling grass and sweet wind, and to the endless sea beyond.

Achilles grimaced, and felt a knot on his throat.

“I will try to leave,” he said, finally. Patroclus found his hand, and waited for the prince to look at him. His eyes were kind, caramel as a ray of sunshine found them, and much more patient than he deserved. “No, no, I will try.” He wanted to insist. He could not assure, and he knew that, but at the very least he wanted Patroclus to know he would try his damndest. “And, if I manage, I will come find you at the healers, yes?”

He regretted it, somehow, as he watched a spark of hope light in Patroclus’ eyes, saw it bloom in the way he smiled. In the way he was pulled by soft hands, squeezed agains his warm chest, ear pressed to beloved heartbeat.

He was gods damned Aristos Achion, he thought.

What good was such a title if he could not manage something as simple as making time for his most beloved? To celebrate the day he had arrived to the world? To make him happy and free? To watch him massage his jaw at the end of the day, sore from joy?

It was with that resolved that he cleaned himself of sand and lingering salt and donned fresh clothing. A new tunic, rich blue and soft and slippery against his skin, heavy on his shoulder, along with the crown of fresh laurels adorning his head, the hammered gold belt around his waist.

He watched, with his heart in his hands, as Patroclus stood ready for the day by the window, simple white and grey tunic already on, strapped for ease around his legs, his hair held off his face by a band. He stood by his treasure trove, by his collection of little white shells and perfect pebbles, of dried herbs and clay jars filled with fresh water, housing newly grown cuttings. Some things had been shifted to make space. Fondly, his new conch was placed right in the middle of it all, fingers preciously brushing every divot, tracing stripes as they spiraled.

Achilles went to him, a dying sailor spotting land. He circled his arms around him, from behind, rested his chin over his love’s shoulder, delighted by how tall he had grown, nuzzled into his beard, smiled as he spotted a hidden mole on the underside of his jaw. “Philtatos,” he whispered, “I will see you later.”

Gentle nodding. A cheek pressed against his head.

There hadn’t been time for much else, as much as Achilles wanted to take his beloved away from the palace and it’s tall marble walls. He would kill for a few minutes to carry him back to bed, just to kiss for a moment longer, to taste his skin, his shoulders, his stomach, the hollows of his hips, to find that mole he knew very well on the inside of his thigh, to bite around it, to hear a gasp for air, to feel his lover arch underneath him. And then to be bitten back.

Like the wild things they were. Still.

It wasn’t to be.

Achilles hurried through the hall, as the sound of horses and chariots filled their entrance. Servants hurried too, well cleaned and groomed, at the bid and call of their king and prince, for their distinguished visitors. He stood next to his father, who simply released a deep sigh of relief, smiled and patted his golden son on the shoulder.

That smile got wider, forced into brilliantness, as their doors were opened, and the entourage of Lords and Kings made their way inside.

Kings he knew since he was a child. From Mycenae, from Sparta, from Ithaca. Argos, Salamis, even Athens. From small kingdoms, specks in the map. They were thirsty for glory, greedy for gold, too much blood boiling in their veins, waiting to spill on their marble floor.

Achilles remembered to smile. Just in time. He allowed his father to reintroduce him, nodding along, inclining his head, standing pin straight, nose in the air and chest puffed out as strange eyes fell on him.

He ought to charm. That was their play.

As much as he was loved by his King Father, truly, sincerely, they both knew he was an asset.

For who would choose to fight Aristos Achion? Who would risk the wrath of his goddess mother? Of the warrior himself?

Nobles and Kings ought to think of themselves far removed from fools. And so, they would choose accordingly.

Most of them, anyway.

They walked through their halls, the tallest, most gleaming, fantastic, in their palace, trimmed with gold, recently spotted with tiny jewel accents. Their voices boomed and echoed through and grated the Prince’s nerves, though he kept his charming smile in its place, did not allow it to drop of quiver, despite his fleeting thoughts of hazy sunlight and warm skin against his own.

At their table, a mostly round monstrosity made from driftwood, bowls were overwhelmed by fruit. Clusters of grapes hung heavy with juice, sliced plums drizzled with honey, apricots and pomegranate seeds and wild berries, bright and shiny in the candle light of the dining hall.

There was a lot of laughter. The boisterous kind, as servant girls carrying gourds of mixed, spiced wine made their entrance, golden chalices at the ready before each lord.

It would take hours, he thought, with a quick glance towards the windows, towards the sunshine outside, the shadows which would shorten and shorten before going long and cold against the dipping sun.

Achilles would look back to that day many times. Years removed.

He would remember it as clearly as the waters of their brook, in their forest. He would remember the endless meetings, his father drawling on and on. The dignitaries from far away kingdoms clamoring for their attention, speaking of their wealth, their armies, their daughters.

Strange eyes heavy on the back of his neck.

He would remember the ache on his cheeks, from the polite smile he forced himself to keep. So unlike through happiness. So much more painful.

The relief when it was all over. Much too late. The moon high in the sky.

He would remember encountering Patroclus in the hallway. Standing together before their door. How exhausted he looked. How done Achilles felt. And then that smile he adored, tentative, slightly lopsided, scrunched nose, crinkled eyes, dark in the barely-lit hallway. A single spark of fire reflecting off near-black brown.

Holding hands as they laid together in bed.

Patroclus’ conch, striped amber and bright white, resting on the windowsill, near pebbles rolled by the waves until smooth, and hand-dried flowers.

He would remember the smell of the healer’s room clinging to dark curls. Burying his nose into them, surrounding a warm body with his arms. Feeling their chests expand in perfect unison, their hearts almost one.

A kiss planted on his shoulder. Placing one over each heavy eyelid.

He would mourn.

And he would mark that day, in his mind, as the very first time he broke a promise to his love.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They stood together, hand in hand, before the palace door. Quietly listening.Beyond it, the scrambling of feet, the whinnying of horses, the revelry of men excited and anxious and expectant. The booming voices of kings, who have never been told to be quieter, to mind the people around, to behave and control themselves. Laughter, boisterous and free, despite the circumstances.“This could be it.” Achilles whispered as he spoke. They were alone, everyone else standing out in the sun, waiting for the prince to lead their charge. “Without bloodshed.”They were to negotiate.Opus was to meet them on neutral grounds. An anonymous field, which technically belonged to their allies, but was far away enough from anything of importance to classify as safe for all those involved. Kings and princes, generals and soldier after soldier, to gather in a single place, where their blood could sizzle and bubble, but never boil over.A well aimed arrow could end it all, thought Achilles, but the mere thought of the dishonor it would bring kept him at bay.He was sure it would keep most men at bay.And either way, the true target was not to make an appearance.“Can you believe it?”Patroclus sighed. And squeezed his hand.“Yes,” said the prince, as he brought their joined hands up, and kissed his heart’s knuckles. “I do not think so either.”But it must be done, had been King Peleus’ words. There is a chance, a grain of sand in an ocean, that this could be it.
History must remember that we tried.
Patroclus turned to him, wide-eyed, eyebrows drawn together, knitted in worry. He shot a look around, found no one to interrupt, to intrude in their goodbye.Calloused hands found Achilles’ jaw, drew him in, guided him forwards and slightly up, until their foreheads met, their breaths mingled. His own hands came up, surrounded bandaged wrists and dry skin. He kissed one palm, wrecked from hours at the healers - bandaging and washing and splinting - then the other - a pestle going round and round and round the mortar, herb paste ruined by blood bursting from tender blisters - and sighed against warm skin.His most beloved held him firmly, but his breath trembled.He did not want Achilles to go.“I must, love,” their lips brushed as he spoke. Patroclus squeezed his eye shut. “I will come back to you.”They released each other, reluctantly, slowly, and stepped back and back until only their hands were joined, and then even that slipped away, their fingertips brushing until the last second.The door opened. Golden sunshine spilled around them, ignited them both, the prince sculpted from solid gold, his beloved hazy and lovely, curls mahogany in the light.He turned and began his descent towards the ground, sandals silent against polished marble stairs, laughter strangled into hushed whispers. He only looked back when he found himself next to his horse.Patroclus stood where he had left him, face mostly blank. To everyone else, he would seem like a good friend, a loyal companion watching his prince off, bound to remain for the well being of the injured and sick. To his lover, who knew every speck of gold in his eyes, who had kissed every hidden freckle and mole, traced every scar, he looked like dread itself taken human shape. Shivering in the daylight.Achilles lifted a hand, in silent farewell. Patroclus did the same, then tapped the corner of his right eye, several times.Watch where you go, he could imagine him mouthing, or rather: be careful.And with a tight smile, he turned and ducked back into the shadows of the palace. Hurried towards the healer’s room.Men waited for his signal. Noted as he gripped the reins and pulled himself up his mount. Pedasus, rather than Balius or Xanthus as his father had wanted. A mortal horse, as swift as those divine.How could Achilles ever choose anything else?His father watched with a smile, gray around his temples, silver specked on his beard, as kings followed his golden son’s lead. As the Myrmidons, only the most gifted, mounted as well, and waited for a signal. As they fell into position, all of them, Aristos Achion clicked his tongue and his horse obediently set the pace.He sat straight, too rigid, and felt too warm in his clothes and too tight in his skin. He wanted to scream and hurry into a gallop, to turn around and ride along the shore and fall into the sea and, still wet with salt, to hurry through the palace and to the gardens and out the gates.Instead he pointed nose to sky and played his part.When I come back, he thought as his horse fell into a canter, I will help Patroclus with his hands again.He would scour the palace for the right kind of oil, and he would carefully clean cut fingers, warm water and calendula and thyme, and he’d rub life back into them.Those hands he adored.Because they were careful and could heal almost anything. And they were always warm and diligent, picking the pieces he shattered into after each night stuck in councils and useless discussions and puzzled him back together. Pressed him into shape once more, against his chest, over his rabbit-fast heart.The least he could do, he thought, was to love them right back, and just as hard.  Smoke trailed towards the clouds. A spindly, little thing, serpentine in its wind-dance.Achilles led their entourage, flanked by kings, a traveling vee as migrating birds do. They sat tall and proud, chins jutted forward, slightly up, expressions impassible, unaffected by their surroundings or the churning sound of muttering and gossiping soldiers. Their capes fell from their shoulder and back, resting upon their’s horses’ flanks, gently billowing purples and blues and greens, glittering silver and gold thread, twinkling gemmed clasps heavy on their shoulders.This war will be fought by peacocks, he had told Patroclus as he dressed that morning. Received a strained smile for his efforts.Soldiers lined their entrance, their camp already half-way built around them. Tents, tall as houses and just as wide, hoisted up by ropes straining under the weight. The rhythmic thump of wooden stakes being hammered into the ground. Bonfires and torches prepared, lit already at some places, the smell of charcoal and oils prickling their noses.They made it to the center, the root of it all, and descended from their mounts. As always, Achilles graceful and quick, as only he could be.“Look,” said a voice beside him. Odysseus, King of barren Ithaca, pointing forward and up towards the sky. The other kings had carelessly walked off towards comfort, surely. Fluffed pillows to lay upon, and warm meals to recover strength. “Our neighbors.”A twin to their own smoke-snake. The Opuntian camp.Achilles felt himself frown, deeper and deeper as his eyes followed the trail, all the way down to where he could just see the top of tents, very much like their own, sturdy burlap and cured animal hide, all mostly hidden by a nearby hill.There they are, he thought, those who hold my chains.As if sensing his barely-contained ire, King Odysseus sighed and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, heavy, yet careful, the way one placates a reckless, younger brother: one part worry, two parts frustration.“Come, Prince Achilles,” he said, dipping his head to the side, towards a nearby tent, “let us stoke our fires until the precise moment.”He was guided inside, the welcoming scent of clean, sun-dried linens bringing soothing memories to the forefront of his mind, of dark eyes, clever and warm, the ghost of a hand carefully tucking a golden curl behind his ear, a quirked smile. The gulping sound of a cup being filled and the spiced aroma of wine pulled him out from that safe place in his mind and left him cold enough to keep him stable for a conversation.Odysseus walked towards him, chalices in hand. “You are young,” he muttered, and then hurried to add before offense could settle, “it is a good thing.”Cups were held towards him, golden and well crafted, smooth and heavy. Achilles took one, then politely clinked it against its twin, before taking a healthy gulp from it. Odysseus did the same. All in good fortune.“Is it,” he asked afterwards, “a good thing?”“Of course.” Odysseus’ eyes were sharp. Not in that comforting way Patroclus’ were, safe and smart, but with an edge of bitter venom to them. Calling him a snake would be an insult not yet earned, but Achilles would keep the comparison in mind either way. One is never careful enough around the venom-kin. “We are in dire need of young eyes, Prince Achilles.”“Young eyes?”The King smiled. Convincingly so, at least.“New perspective,” it was an amendment. Or, perhaps, a practiced speech Achilles had played beautifully into. “I look at our maps and, sometimes, I no longer see. Truly see. I’ve studied it too long, and now all detail is gone from me.” He sipped his wine and rounded a nearby table, placed as the center piece of the arrangement. It was a great, big thing, with heavy wooden legs like trunks and a thick, polished top. A waste of effort for the soldiers tasked with carrying it.Upon it, laid a map, held flat by familiar metal-and-wood markers.“After a while, what should be obvious hides from us. What once was clear, becomes muddled and confusing.” Odysseus sighed, and trailed one finger through the map. The road they had taken, Achilles could see over the rim of his chalice. From his home, Phthia, though valleys and forests, and all the way to their chosen ground.“What is it,” he began, “that you truly wish to discuss, King of Ithaca.”The man kept his smile, too perfectly, but honest either way, and took a cushioned seat nearby. Crossed a leg over the other, rested ankle over knee, showcased an ugly scar.“I simply wish to connect,” he paused and took a sip from his cup, as if to wet his lips. “What do you know of this conflict?”Achilles had been grilled by his tutors, by his father’s council, by his advisers. His King father had questioned him, relentlessly. He had repeated it all to Patroclus, night after night, and trusted his attentive eyes, the infallible memory he knew hid behind them. He felt he knew it all, against his consent. “The movement of troops,” he chose to say, “yours, mine, every king’s.”“I do not doubt it. Nor do I doubt you are intimately familiar with the rhythm of combat.”“Then?”“Do you know the reason for this conflict?”
The reason?
He wanted to spit. Instead, he placed his cup over the fine parchment and made to find Opus. Its coast, the shape it made against the blue of the sea, which would’ve sung to Achilles, even then and there.“King Menoitius of Opus,” his finger found the spot, “has violated peace and oath and sent what he calls ‘search parties’ inland, through neighboring kingdoms and farther in.”Odysseus watched him, nodded along. Sized him up.Achilles continued.“What were once lonely scouts, pairs of mounted rangers, acceptable, have slowly grown into infantries, marching through our fields, terrorizing our people. Alliances have been made, under the table at first, now officially and proudly.”“Yes.” The King’s cup was finally released, placed softly on the trampled earth. “And the why?”“Why?”“What were the search parties for, originally?”Ah. He knew too well, though barely anyone talked about it anymore.“The lost Prince of Opus.”Only then did the King's eyes match his smile. The moment he had been waiting for, to spring forward and shine, the true purpose of their impromptu meeting.“Were you told the story, Prince Achilles?”“Only what was necessary,” he knew it was coming. Odysseus of Ithaca was renowned for many feats. For the favor the Grey Lady herself, for his intellect and creativity as a tactician, and for the fierce love for his wife. He was, of course, also infamous for his silver tongue. His stories. “Does it make a difference?”He hummed as he answered, “perhaps,” and leaned back into his chair, lounged and got comfortable. “If you would allow me,” his hand went out, arm making a wide arch to his right, loose and graceful, a declaimer before his audience. Distantly, men worked, kings laughed. “I believe we have the time.”Patroclus would not like him, thought Achilles, and smiled at the thought.He bit anyway, and allowed himself to be drawn by the snake’s dance.“I suppose we do.”  Opus had always been blessed by plenty.Plenty of fish, plenty of grain.                     Olives to spare.Overflowing,        bubbling over,                spilling                        with fruit.        Gold and jewels.                 Linen and wool.                                                                Marble, glass, and clay.But not plenty of sons, it seemed. The queen was a fair woman.Kind and soft and warm as the sun,        lyric and melody was her voice,                silk, her touch.                        But one cannot have it all, lest they be gods.An absent mind.        A faint heart.                And no fruit to bear herself.But given one boy.                                 Miracle!        Glory of the father.                                 Beloved.
                         Bright.
                                        A gift.Not plenty of sons        There was                but one. Opus had plenty.                Opus was plenty.        But plenties call eyes                like honey does flies.Snakes at their feet,                                hiding in the grass. It was a quiet night.                The moon was dark.The king worked late,        his queen was frail,        And his son,              still a boy.                                 Beloved.
                         Bright.
                                      Cried! ‘My son,’ thought the King, and ran.
                                            ‘My only son.’
 Servants laid through the halls.      Red.                  Spilled over the stone.Glass eyes watched the king run.        Dead.                  Watched him tear at doors.        Gone.                  Heard him scream into the night. Horses          tearing                   through                            the roads                  through           the fieldsthrough            the forests                              broken       wagon       wheels. Her signet ring      Forgotten.       Bloody.            On the road. No sign of the boy. That night, Opus lost its queen.      Opus lost its prince.            But Opus earned                              a few things.The fury of their king, for one.      The outrage of its people.                                        Justice!      But most importantly,                        Opus was plenty.And never before            had been so much.  A heavy silence fell around them as the Odysseus finished his tale, allowed it to linger to settle into the air as one does with incense smoke. Achilles watched him, the satisfied look of his eyes, and decided he did not like it all. Did not want it to permeate into the earth around them.“Have you ever been told,” he said, and lowered his half empty chalice to the table once more with a heavy, resounding clank, “that everything you say sounds like bullshit?”Odysseus startled. Then broke into laughter, loud and delighted. “Not to my face.” He smiled, and shook ever so slightly with mirth. “This is why I appreciate you so much, Prince Achilles. You are an honest man.”Achilles sighed, but could not help a slight smile. “So is it,” he asked, “that tale. Bullshit?”The King rubbed at this beard. “No one knows for sure,” he stood, straight and stiff, until a distinct pop of bones had him relaxing, “but that hardly matter.” He retrieved his chalice, and drowned what was left of his wine with a deep tip back. Then, he rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, wiped a stray red droplet. “Whatever truly happened between those palace walls, no one knows. What we know is that Opus gained something invaluable.”“They lost a prince.”“They gained an excuse, Prince Achilles.”“Everyone knows that.” And what honor was there in such a thing?“Ah, but not it’s value.”Odysseus smiled, annoyingly glad with himself, and went on, tipping his cup to catch a stray drop caught at the bottom.“What better reason for such a crusade, if not for the grief of a father? What greatest insult is there, but the pillaging of one’s own home, the murder of one’s wife, the loss of a first born son?” The chalice was dropped, straight into the ground. It made almost no sound against the dirt. “Wouldn’t you do the same, after all?”“I have no sons.”A snake. Truly a snake. The King smiled, and made for the exit.“For a beloved, then?”The tent flapped. He was gone.Achilles’ chalice flew from his hand. Wine spilled like blood over the map.  They had not been expecting to see him.Three days had gone by since their arrival. They sat with representatives from Opus and their allies. Council members, nobles, even merchants, given they held enough coin and their pockets were deep enough to matter in the grand scheme they were attempting to weave. At dawn, they would gather at the edge of their camps, and walk to the middle of the field, to the neutral tent set there and watched by soldiers and servants from both sides. They would speak, they would move pieces along their boards, offer and counter offer until dusk and, when the moon began to raise, they would leave the way they came.The moon would grow heavy and ride high in the sky as the kings planned their next move, planned the repeat of the next day.Odysseys thrived in it. Diomedes, King of Argos, would not be far behind him. They volleyed back and forth and played rounds around their enemies while Agamemnon seethed. He had no patience for it, not at all, and it showed in the way he downed wine and leaned heavily on his chair.Achilles did not think himself patient either, but he was aware enough to act the part, loath lying as he did.His father had taught him. Phoinix trained him for it. Drilled him until he could swallow his rage.
He hated it.
Beneath the table, his feet tapped silently against the dry soil, once green. At night, he sighed and laid against the ghost of a warm body beside him, and he yearned for the feeling of slow, patient writing traced over his chest by nimble fingers. He missed soft curls resting over his shoulder, and ached for soft, damp breath over his pulse, hungered for the familiar taste of plum and bitter herbs.
Rosemary pressed under his nose.
And he hated the men on the camp across the field who had pulled him from his home. Truly hated. Completely.A snarl hid behind his teeth as he sat a new day. Cups clicked over the table as a servant went around and poured watery wine, diluted to stretch longer than they had planned. Another splayed a map on the table and placed markers over their kingdoms, sometimes stopping to polish dust off of them, and an older man sat at the corner, ready to listen in and record.They settled, hushed whispers growing quieter and quieter and, just as silence truly began to come over them, the tent flap fluttered.A tall and broad figure, adorned in purple, stood rod straight against the sunshine. He was cast in shadow for a moment, penumbra cutting into his sloping nose, his neatly trimmed beard. As the man stepped into the tent and allowed the flap to fall behind him, firelight twinkled in the gold of his crown, a jewel in every finger. His feet fell heavily but, when he sat, he did so with grace.“King Menoitius of Opus,” Odysseus, hawk-quick and sleek as eels, spoke first, a welcoming smile splitting on his face. “Had we been aware of your presence, we would have prepared a finer meal.”A platter of cheeses and olives was placed to the side, along with bowls heaping with multicolored grapes, heavy with juice. The newly arrived King watched the servants with contempt, the food with merely disguised disgust, and yet smiled. An ugly thing, forced with little care, carved in a jagged line.Lopsided, considered Achilles, familiar, but chased that thought away.“I prefer it this way.” His voice was rough and deep, the tone low. It sounded scratchy, as the voice of old priest who have lived their lives surrounded by the fire and smoke of offerings. “If you would all be in agreement, lords and kings, I would appreciate us skipping right through to the issue at hand.”It was bold, requesting to skip formalities, but Achilles found himself appreciating the idea. His eyes never left the king as he nodded, as he noted his strong jaw and the crevice that formed between his brow from his perpetual frown. One by one each men agreed.“Very well, then.”King Menoitius had brown eyes. Hazel, perhaps. There was nothing warm about them, despite the color. He examined each king, as the man in the corner settled with a roll of parchment and gilded hold for his pencil. The King’s thick eyebrows lifted as he reached Achilles, staring for a second too long. Other than that, his expression remained sour and hard.Something about him nagged at the prince’s mind. The way he leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand, and examined them with quick, flitting eyes, perhaps. The way he laid his other hand over the table and rhythmically drummed his fingers. The intensity of his gaze.“After hearing what my council and allies have discussed these past days,” he began, as his eyes zeroed in on Agamemnon, “I do not believe we will be able to reach an agreement, no matter how long we negotiate.”Menelaus of Sparta released a deep breath as he spoke, tired through and through, “You mean to send us to war, King of Opus?”“Unfortunately.” No regret in his voice. Too stable. “I am afraid you are unable to offer me what I seek.”Silence.Menoitius lowered his head for a moment and sat back, the picture of a grieving father, a husband, and wronged man, were it not for the slightest of quirks to his lips. It was mostly hidden by his beard, by the shadows creeping over his visage, but Achilles could read such things as easily as he walked, as he breathed. His most beloved spoke silently, after all, with nothing but glances and signs. A twitch of lips meant a dozen different things, if you looked closely enough.“On my wife’s blood,”
          Red.

Spilled over the stone.
“And for my son, who I search for still.”
          ‘My son,’ thought the King, and ran.
“Kings. Princes. Lords.” He sat, taut and straight, nose to the air. “I ask you to understand. I have been victim to the greatest of insults, and endured the deepest of grieves.”“And yet,” Odyssesus and his silver-tipped tongue, “neither us nor our homes hold guilt in these matters.”Clenching teeth. Then a snarl.“What ensure this, King of Ithaca?”Agamemnon bristled. Menoitius continued.“My son was taken through your territories, how do I know none of you were responsible for the attack in my home?”From where he sat, Achilles could hear the grinding of teeth. He felt his own hunches rise at the accusation. The dishonorable deed being placed wrongfully over their heads, crowns of thorns digging into their skulls.“Let us look at the facts, lords and kings.” Menoitius remained seated, but he sat taller, allowed his face to shift with his fury, though he held a strange air of hunger. “My wife’s signet ring, found bloody on the road, her finger dangling off a fox’s maw.” Achilles could picture it, had seen foxes fleeting around Patroclus’ forest-home, dead mice falling to their gut. “Crows with red beaks nearby.” Cackling, he thought. Crows cackled and laughed, perched on the highest branches, where they could see it all. “Dead. My wife is dead and she rots in the wildness of your forests, unburied and unnamed, her soul forever walking.”The prince could feel his own rage rising, bubbling at his gut, emboldened by his fellows, and yet, Menoitius kept speaking, accusing, on the edge of shouting.“And my son?” Silence from all of them, seething, tense. Menoitius’ nostrils flared like a bull’s. “Sixteen years I have looked for him!” He stood. So did Achilles, and everyone else beside him, even Odysseus, plans forgotten and left in the dust rising at their ire. “A boy of ten, a prince, my only son! Taken from his bed, from our home!” Then there was his finger, pointing towards them, directly to Agamemnon. “Taken by snakes any of you could have sent!”Agamemnon’s fist collided heavily over the table.“Enough!”But there was no stopping them, not after the implications, not with such suspicions dancing in the smoke.Menoitius breathed it all in, and solemnly asked them: “what kind of king, of man, would be if I did not search for my heir? If I did not demand the heads of those guilty?”A coward, they all knew. A push over, lower than dogs. Tucked tail and flattened ears, the runt of the litter, scrambling among wolves.Achilles wanted to scream. He knew, they all knew, the situation was impossible to resolve. It had always been impossible. And yet, there they sat in a mockery of luxury, ridiculous birds showing off their colorful feathers and useless, shiny trinkets, only a step away from comparing the size of their members. The fight would happen, blood would water their fields, and they still insisted on their charade.“It is done then,” he asked, voice hissing very much like his mother’s. Achilles knew his part well. Aristos Achion, goddess born, noble and untouchable and thirsty for battle, despite the fact he only wanted to go home. He refused to think of Patroclus trembling under him as he spoke of bloodshed, but the ache in his chest came either way when he said: “we are decided?”Menoitius nodded. A smile that did not reach his eyes quirked his lips, that ugly crack, a conniving fox grinning as it licked blood of its chops.“We are decided.”  A seastorm raged behind Achilles’ eyes, roiled between his ears, waves crashing against the inside of his skull.The kings riding beside him had taken his silence and burning eyes as a good sign. To be expected of the godling prince, born from sea water and blood and burn over ambrosia, dipped in the styx, whatever fanciful tale they decided was the truth. Of course the smell of coming blood in the air, of glorious battle, smoke and pestilence, called him like a dog to a bone.And what was he to them, after all, but a well-bred hunting dog?He would not, could not, think about it.Instead, his mind was on Menoitius.The King he had imagined for years, since he was a child, back when the news of the attack had reached his father’s council.At the time, he had thought Menoitius would look like his father. Noble and strong, if slightly chipped by the past and sorrow. A King, after all, must be honorable and wise. Or so he had thought.With the years, that image had changed.When he was around twelve, Phoinix had mentioned the scouts. They had arrived with no permission, and had not come to greet his King Father. A minor offense, thought it made the prince bristle. Acceptable given the circumstances. Then, Achilles had imagined a grieving man raising over the tragedy, hopeful, if slightly naive. Maybe even inspiring.After that, had come rangers too, combing the fields, slinking around the forests. That had given his father something to get offended about. Then came small infantries. Villagers had been interrogated too, it seemed, not just in their region, but all through the land. A farmer with broken fingers had kneeled before his father’s throne, terrified and furious.They almost took my daughters, he cried, instead they burned our supplies.And so, Menoitius had slowly morphed in Achilles mind. From father, to king, to general. Eventually towards something barely human, more monster than man.Then, Achilles had been fifteen, and almost ready to venture on his own, and he had gone for a hunt.And, well. Things had changed.He dreamed, every day, of forests and running wild through trees. Of jumping cliffs, screaming in delight. Curling up in a bed of leaves, enjoying dappled sunlight. Watching dark, round eyes grow hazy with sleep, and then eyelashes pointing straight down, fanning heavily over summer-kissed cheeks.He woke up, instead, in cavernous halls and endless talking. To double talk and plans within lies within plans.And he would be held in place, together, by a gentle smile. Tentative. Soft.
Lopsided.
That was the moment the Prince of Phthia realized.He felt cold when, all at once, the pieces fell together, one by one, and fit flawlessly, painted a picture so clear he could see the bottom of the sea through it, and all the fish that swam below, all the way to the darkest sands. The forest, the dead queen, sixteen years, the king. He could not remember dread before in his whole life, but the tightness in his stomach, the knot at the base of his throat could be nothing else.
Lopsided.
That same damning thought went round and round inside his mind, grating, screeching, terrible. He did not even realize they had arrived to Phthia until his feet hit the ground and his mount was taken from him. He climbed those marble steps he knew so well thoughtlessly, and stalked quietly through familiar halls. Less bright. Slightly chipped around the edged. A missing jewel here, gold gone tarnished with age.He did not go to greet his father as he ought to. He did not go and pledge to his princely duty, to incline his head as they had rehearsed so many times, to make his face unfeeling, yes not dispassionate, to deliver the news of the upcoming bloodshed, or their commitment to the cause.Useless pomp, he thought, and clawed at the clasps at his shoulder until the fabric around it ripped loudly, ugly, and his blue-and-gold cape fell crumpled to the ground behind him.He used to wear green. And then he had found Patroclus and given him his green cape and loved the color so, so much on him, he had sworn off of it completely. Had given it to his beloved, again and again.How many things had he given Patroclus?Enough to summon him for, at that exact moment, there he was, rounding the corner and wringing his hands anxiously, looking round and around, his head swiveling like a bird’s.Then their eyes met, and that smile.That smile he adored, had adored for years. That was warm and beautiful, that crinkled his eyes around the corners, ignited them, that showed that tooth in the bottom row that was just slightly out of place, endearingly so. That smile Patroclus gave only him, when they were alone, relieved, excited, fond, as he hurried towards him.That smile. Lopsided.How it fell when Achilles flinched.How Patroclus cocked his head, a curl tumbling out of place, his eyebrows knit together. A nick between them as he frowned.
What’s wrong?
He spoke silently, as he always had, mouthed careful and precise for Achilles.“Tell me it isn’t true.” He almost begged. He never had before, never even knelt, barely even for prayer, and yet he would, he would, if just to change what he knew, if he could forget and live blissfully, deliciously, in ignorance with his love.But there he was, his Patroclus, with his neat beard, and his eyelashes that pointed straight down, and a dimple on his chin. With his mother’s eyes, her hair and skin, with all her soft edges and sweetness.And then there were the sharper parts.“I met Menoitius of Opus.”Fear. Immediate, absolute.Blood left Patroclus’ face, leaving him pale, sick looking, with frightened-rabbit eyes, round and alert. There was the boy from the woods, part nymph and made of perfume carried by a spring breeze. There was the healer, gentle and effective, and smart. There was his lover, his weight over him, lips brushing his pulse, hands at his hips.There was the Prince.“Tell me.”He did not recognized his own voice, or the way Patroclus’ breath stuttered at his growl, how his eyes shifted like they had that first night. From his face to the hallway behind him, back to his face. The slight hiss his sandals made against the marble as he shifted ever so slightly back.Achilles snapped, and took a single, stomping step forward.“Be a man and tell me!”The world felt small, looked small, his focus a single, deadly thing, an arrow freed and left to fly and pierce.There were a few things which Achilles knew very, very well. The shape of a spear, for instance, the perfect height to hold it at, the weight of it in his hand. He knew to balance it, knew where the earth pulled it towards its inexorable hold, how to ensure the wind would carry it either way, how to spin it and play and dance to its deadly tune. He knew, instinctively, how to pierce a heart, with iron or stone, with his own hand. He knew the crack of ribs, the crunch of bones, the splattering of blood. He knew the dead eyes of rabbit and men, how they went dull just the same.He knew their maps, the shape of rivers and forests and roads. He knew the shape of his shores, the scent of salt in the air, the warm sand at his feet.But what he knew best, was the man before him.He knew that jaw, solid as he traced it with the pads of his fingers, yet lovely and pliant under his kiss, warm, always so warm, scratchy with stubble. Rubbing against his hand. Nuzzling his cheek. The inside of his thigh. He had traced those brows, felt the deep hollow of his eyes, been tickled by long eyelashes. Knew they pointed straight down and fanned against the thin, always-purple skin there. Knew his nose dipped, and then bumped, and then gently arched down, noble and proud.A royal profile, he had.Had found near twins of it all, in the monstrous visage of the king.Here he is, he thought, and let his eyes wander, up and down his lover’s face.
The one who has always been holding my chain.
Beautiful, scarred, lovely brown hands, twisting around metal, worrying at the golden links as he thoughtlessly yanked, as it tightened around his neck.Rage boiled from his gut and up his throat, scalding hot and bitter.“By Olympus, tell me!” He screamed, and he wanted to cry. “Are you...”A nod. Before Achilles could finish speaking. Quick, yet firm, and so, so frightened.
Yes.
Achilles froze where he stood. Took a single step back and went rigid with the knowledge. He had known. He had known, for almost a full day, and it still cracked his insides right in half to see it confirmed.He felt injured.Patroclus stepped towards him, hands reaching forward, towards him. His lips moved.
Achilles.
He felt wronged.And so, all the bubbling ire he had swallowed through the years, everything he had kept inside to be a noble prince, worthy of legend and song, flooded his throat.
Wait.
He took steps forward, heavy. Marble seemed to crack under his feet.
Achilles.
Patroclus went back and back, and Achilles followed, furious.He did not know what he wanted to do. All he knew was that he wanted to trap him, to have him in his hands.Please.To shake him, to scream at him.Frantically, Patroclus pointed at his own head, and stepped back as Achilles closed in on him, much too swift, every move divine. Think. He was a cat about the pounce over a fledging, he wanted to catch Patroclus and never let him go, but he kept backing away, pointing at his head. Explain. At his own chest. Me. At his head. Explain. His hands together, as if in prayer. Please.His back collided with the wall. His hands remained together in quiet supplication.
Please.
Patroclus looked at him and shrunk in on himself. As if expecting to be struck.That broke through Achilles’ rage, shattered it and washed him cold.He stepped back, quickly. Patroclus’ breath came quick and unsteady, deadly relief.Had it always been there? Fear?Had his lover trembled underneath him in expectation of pain? Was it not the war he feared, but the ire of Aristos Achion?He could remember him, gaunt faced and almost nude and quietly looking into the eyes of dead rabbits, at a bloody trail left over the hunch of the horse they shared. Understanding. He could feel hands tight and trembling as he was brought through the gates that day. Dressed and sheltered and fed, yes, but without options.Achilles pictured himself, the princeling, tugging along a lover unable to speak, pushing him against their mattress.Had his sounds been in pleasure? The quickness of his breath? The stuttering of his hips?Had he thought himself a hostage? Had he writhed in pain or in desire? Curled around him and away from him in a silent plea? A plea for freedom? For more?Had he wanted him?
Achilles.
Patroclus moved his mouth with desperate purpose, calling for him, hands trying to shape words he could not utter. He looked afraid still.And still, Achilles could see the inheritance of his father, the bloodline of Opus. The shape of his nose, the little crevice dug between his brows, the strong jaw.A hostage? A spy? Had he been the one to steal a prince? Or had he been tricked by one not-lost?Had he really been close to striking him?No. No, never. Never! He’d loose his hands first!
Achilles, please.
Did Patroclus know that?He did not want to see it. Not anymore. He could not take his silent words. Could not think of the implications, could not allow himself to crack, not yet, not in front of Patroclus, not where they could be found.“I cannot see you right now.”There was only the sound of his feet as he hurried down the hall. And then a ruckus, something metallic clanking against the wall, the floor. He looked back, just long enough to see Patroclus desperately dropping a nearby vase to the floor, to call him back, get his attention. He tried to mouth, to make shapes with his fingers, but Achilles could not see, did not want to, for the first time.He hurried once again.Coughing followed him. An injured sound, very much a squeak.He ran. And did not look back.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

A doe, with her little fawn closely in tow.It was the beginning spring, and so it made sense for that to be the first thing Achilles saw as he stepped into the forest, silent as he could go. Some trees had flowered, and would soon grow heavy with fruit, while others remained mostly bare and spindly. The night breeze carried perfume with it, winter cold still, but soothing, slow, and gentle. Grass was tender beneath his feet, soft and sweetly pliant, and the earth beneath it was damp and cool.He had removed his sandals, because that was the way of the forest. Or it was, at least, Patroclus’ way.He could hear his horse still, loudly huffing behind him, tied where he had left him on the usual tree. Its breath came ragged and harsh, again and again, and he could imagine the plumes of steam streaming from its nostrils into the cool air.Achilles had galloped, full speed, all the way from the palace and, when his horse had begun to falter, he had pushed it harder still. And all the while, the same thought tormented him:
I cannot see you right now.
He shook his head. Then looked on to the woods, to the moonshadows cast between the trees, dipping the underbrush in liquid silver. The doe, lifting her head, ears twitching and swiveling towards him, leaping into the depths, only stopping to wait for he precious charge to run beside her.Gone, with a flash of white tail.Achilles began his walk. For once, doubtful of his every step, and he thought of the waves.    He had run to the beach, of course.In his fury, in his hurry, he had been reduced to his most basic of instincts, to that creature that lived inside his chest and craved the depths. He had found the nearest window and leaped right through into the gardens, to the fields, the hills he had once joyfully rolled down, and onto pure, white sand. He had taken the most difficult path, knowing fully Patroclus would not be able to follow him.Would he even dare follow the irate prince?As always, the sea sang to him. It comforted him. And so, he stood there, where the water lapped at his feet, and pushed him deeper and deeper into the sand, like it wanted to eat him whole and keep safe forever more.The sounds of his own harsh breath surprised him. Half a growl. There were stories, he knew, of men transforming into monsters. Would his rage transform him into a beast too? Would he sprout fangs and claws and tear at the world? Would he fly on leathery wings all the way to the craggy beaches of Opus and spit fire onto the land? Would he scorch the fields and salt the earth with his breath?
Would he swallow the whole kingdom?
He would leave Menoitius unscathed, he thought, so he could watch it all crumble under his feet. Then, and only then, would he swallow the king whole.Then he would find Patroclus and-He screamed as loud as he could, again and again, and poured every ounce of ire he held in his chest. Every frustration, every snake slithering through the grass, every chain at his neck, he screamed and spit it all into the sea.When he stopped he fell back, back to the sand, and simply watched the sky.Then he would find Patroclus, and he would weep.What was he supposed to do?He knew what he ought to do, as dictated by his princely duty, by the alliances of war and honor. He knew what was expected of him.Would revealing Patroclus as the lost heir of Opus do anything at all to stop the fighting? How would it be done? What would happen if he presented the kings with the excuse?He felt sick for even referring to Patroclus like that.He thought of fearful eyes. Of a boy, huddling among the roots, shaking at the wild thing that had chased him, spear at hand. He thought of protruding ribs and knobby knees. Black-crusted nails, and muddy, bare feet. Of a hunger so desperate it had become grief. Of a little hole in the earth, a tree hollow, a root-home. Of a name gone unspoken, carved onto the wood, and the thin half-nymph that had hidden there all alone.He thought of skilled hands. Gentle always, once-soft but gone sturdy with work. He thought of the scraping sound of the mortar, round and round and round, and the screams of a man who had been caught under the wheels of a chariot subsiding into sobs, as tears of the poppy slid down his throat. The attentive healer seating beside him. All night. The almost silent gasp, early in the morning. Then shoulders dropping, head too, in defeat. The crumpled expression as he closed the man’s eyes.And he thought of the man he loved. Of dark eyes, so, so deep and lovely, round and big. So smart and so quick. He thought of his lover standing next to him, of his shoulder - warm, smooth - nudging him, the slightest jutting of his chin, to subtly make him look at this, and this, and that, Achilles, look at that. Laughing, then coughing to hide it, his love standing perfectly prim as Achilles made a fool of himself. His smile, scrunching his nose, crinkling his eyes. Curls, soft, never laying flat behind his ear, near-black in the shadows, mahogany in the light. Listening to his heart, his breath, holding him, looking at him.Achilles. No ‘prince,’ nor ‘soldier’. No ‘Aristos Achion, godess born, dipped in the Styx.’His mouth, moving so clear, so precise, eyes shining with mirth as they laid surrounded by tall grass and flowers.
Achilles!
Hands sticky with plum juice. A name, written on the palm of his hand, one night, so many moons ago.
Pa-tro-clus.
He thought of Patroclus.He thought of Patroclus, taken from Phthia and ridden all the way to Opus, presented like a prize to the raging king, never to be seen again. And then he thought of Patroclus punished for his secrecy. Imprisoned until his father came to claim him back. Held in a little room, gilded and proper, for he was a prince, but stiflingly quiet and still, away from the trees and the breeze, and the blue sky and stars.He swallowed hard, as rage subsided and morphed into sadness. Turned blue and uncomfortably warm.He thought of Patroclus, back to the wall, hands together in supplication, in prayer, afraid.All those years, a decade - a decade! - he had known. He had seen it all unfold, he had watch soldiers go and return maimed, not return at all. He had seen Achilles in and out of councils and meetings, he had listened along to endless nights of planning, seen bitterness grow greater and heavier on his tongue-And he had waited! He remembered! Every night, for Achilles to return! Bone tired from his own toiling at the healers’, standing by the window, sitting on their bed, sometimes dead-eyed and distant, but smiling only when Achilles made his return.He had received him, each time, and laid next to him. He had guided the prince’s head to lay at the crook of his neck. And Achilles had loved him for it. So much, for so long. He had kissed Patroclus’ shoulder, his throat, followed each freckles, trailed the silvery skin of his scar-
His scar.
He stilled, laying over the sand, and looked on to the endless, starry, dark of of the sky.I look at our maps and, sometimes, the voice of Odysseus of Ithaca resounded in his head, I no longer see.Suddenly, the stars seemed too close and too heavy and he felt as thought the sky would fall over him and crush him. That no matter how fast he was, how strong, how divine, he would be caught in a shattering rain of celestial glass.
His scar!
You are not a beast, son, he could hear his father, exasperated, inside his head, nor are you a wave to crash upon the shore with no regard to those you could drown. For your sake, for everyone’s sake, think Achilles.
Think.
Achilles, merely a moment away from raging, and Patroclus, stroking his hair back. A finger finding his temple, tapping twice. A reminder to stop. To think.
Think!
He sat, bolt quick.Just then, he noticed his mother, smiling in the water. Her mouth a jagged, red line filled with needle sharp teeth, her skin pearl perfect and translucent, her hair ink flowing around her, bobbing and twisting.She extended her hand towards him, beaconing.And then.She invited him into her embrace, cold and safe, away from the falling sky and the heavy stars. She grieved and raged for him, for his hurt, because she loved him, he knew, she loved him. He loved her! But she was also a goddess, and men were fickle creatures to her, all blunt, painful teeth and hands that grabbed like a vice and pulled and trapped and held and hurt.She looked, almost, relieved.Like a point had been made. A little boy, allowed to fall and scrape his knees, so he may learn.What have I done, thought the prince, as he stood in the water, which had risen and swelled around him, up, up as it reached his shins.He looked at her.She must have realized, then, that her point had not been made. Something in the prince’s face, perhaps. He could feel dread, and had not bothered to hide it. His hurt had not taught, but emboldened. His mistakes were his own, and not blamed on the human who held her son’s heart.Achilles stared at her, at her hand dropping, her mouth tugging into a grimace. And she knew. He knew too.He turned towards land, and he ran.    In the night, in the dark, the forest around Achilles seemed cold and strange.He had never stopped to notice, too enthralled with Patroclus in his element, walking with his shoulders straight, confident in every step of bare feet over grass and earth and mud, but the forest was deep. It was a creature in it of itself, perhaps, ancient and slow, which breathed deeply, and closed its fingers tighter and tighter as one walked deeper, until the sky was but an accidental peek from the world beyond.The sea was to Achilles, as the forest was to Patroclus.A protector. A beautiful, wild place, unfathomably big and incredibly wise. Equal parts kind and fierce.The prince pressed his lips as he passed a familiar clearing, bathed in moonlight, pale and desaturated.They had laid there before. Sometimes just to nap. To be together, to exist in silence in their safe place, hidden in the tall grass and the wild flowers. Sometimes to hold each other, close, closer, rocking together and arching in pleasure.Beyond it, the babbling brook, the place they had first kissed. Bloody knees and trembling hands and dried, soft lips.A hill they had rolled down. Trees they had climbed in search for ripe fruit. An ancient fox den and the kits resting inside.All gone, without the guiding hand of his love to color it all in joy, to soften the light, make it hazy and golden.Achilles no longer felt like an explorer, like a wild thing. He was a hunter again, sniffing for blood. Shooting at birds and stringing dead rabbits by their feet, covering his hands in pig’s blood. The forest would fight him again, he thought, and the bramble would trip him and branches would whip at his skin and make him bleed, thorns would dig into his feet, for he was a hunter again, and he only knew how to take.He hated it.He hurried through.    The palace had been a mess of movement.Servants hurried through the halls, arms heavy with jugs of wine, platters of fruits and cheeses, and cured meats. He heard the familiar voices of the cooks, shouting orders, the hurried shuffle of their young apprentices running to fulfill their request. Distantly, boisterous laughter.A banquet was underway.What is there to celebrate, Achilles thought, bitterly, as he dodged young serving boys attempting to inform him of the fact that his presence was required.He knew, and did not care. He simply hurried, turned on this hall and that, and almost crashed into their door.Things seemed in place, when his eyes passed through the room, quickly looking for a sign of Patroclus.Their door shut behind him with a low thud.The sheets over their bed were nice and crisp, a faded, bone-white. The furs neatly folded at the foot, pillow’s softly fluffed. The chests which held their clothing remained closed. A cape Achilles had left to fall draped over the chair in the corner. Beneath it, resting against the wall, a pair of bags meant for their travels.A couple more months to go, and Patroclus would turn twenty-seven. And they would have filled their bags with provisions and galloped out for the day, free for a moment, to laugh and to love.Achilles stepped in, and listened carefully. For a familiar cadence of breath, for the shuffling of bare feet, the methodical, careful combing of hair, but only the rustling of dried leaves outside, dancing in the breeze, reached him.He noticed, then, and stepped quickly towards the windowsill, usually littered by the little things that brought his Patroclus a smile. Shells and pebbles and pieces of seaglass, a particularly shaped piece of driftwood. Missing.Pieces. Missing.That one shell they found last summer, with the perfect hole. The amber glass shaped like a moon - Achilles had dove down deep for that one. A stone rubbed smooth by sand and waves, an ancient fisher’s hook, gone lumpy and green with age. An enviable collection of treasures from the deep.
Gone.
The conch Achilles had given Patroclus, the year he had broken a promise. Gone. And replaced by a stray piece of parchment.On it, but six word: 
I am sorry. I love you.
 “No.” He snapped his head up and dropped the parchment, leaned over the window to look at the garden, at the tell-tale sign that were broken branches and stomped earth. “No, no, no-” he jumped through the window and ran to the center of the garden, stepped over the fountain and climbed easily to the highest point- “Patroclus?” He looked around. Did not see him. His heart beat loudly in his ears. “Patroclus!” He screamed, and jumped down, and turned this way and that. “Patroclus!”He looked, and walked around, on every tree top, every bush, towards the field.
“Patroclus!”
Servants were whispering around him. The hurrying clap of sandaled feet against marble, a dozen curious eyes.Achilles did not care, did not think about the guards watching him go, the nobles peeking through their windows at the bark of their priced dog.
“Patroclus!”
He tore at the flower beds, cringed at the familiar scent of shredded herbs. His hands found earth, clawed at it in his hurry to climb over crawling vines. He searched and wished to truly turn into a beast so he could smell and track, so he could fly, so he could be blessed with a hawk’s eyes.
There!
There, by the path to the orchards, he found something: a glittering, perfectly polished, river stone. Rubbed shiny by years of worrying fingers.Achilles did not think further than that. An ice-cold hand gripped at his heart.
He ran.
Through the orchards, down a painfully familiar path. Distantly, he heard his name called, by his father, perhaps, but his legs did not stop pumping, he did not stop flying. His feet barely touched the earth, the wild grass. He almost missed his stop, dug his heels into the dirt and sent dust and grime up into the air. His hands crashed against the stables, and broke through the wooden wall. The horses inside screamed, stomped the ground, their carer struggling to his feet, rolling off his resting spot.Achilles did not wait for the horse to be readied. He did not need reins.In a second, he was on the animal, the closest one, had grabbed it by the mane and hauled himself up. The stable hand barely managed to throw himself out of the way before the prince was galloping, his mount leaping over fences, throwing unsuspecting guards off their balance, spilling onto the ground.Achilles did not think.He knew the one place to go.    White, little seashells lined the way. Left over low branches and towering, ancient roots. Neatly placed, with painful, precious care.Achilles stood before the tree he knew well, still bare from the passing winter, but with tender new leaves, just beginning to spout.He is here, he thought, and breathed easier, relief so strong it left him sagging in place. He had not disappeared, he was safe, he had not run somewhere Achilles would never reach him.
Patroclus is here.
Dried leaves crunched under his bare feet. He was not trying to be quiet. He did not sneak as he stepped up on roots, hands finding purchase on gnarled knots. He picked his way through the interlocked roots - a rounded pebble here, a piece of green sea-glass, a shell over there - and made his way to the hollow at the center.And there he was.Barefoot, like he thought he would be. All alone in the dark, in the cold.Curled on his side, small as he could make himself, starry obsidian eyes wide as he stared at nothing, thinking and thinking and thinking.Patroclus, cradled in his old root-home, holding his conch against his chest.He was not crying, but Achilles knew he had. He could see it even from there, his swollen, red eyes.
Achilles had done that.
To his most beloved, he had promised everything. The world, the stars and the moon, along with every ounce of his attention. He had promised him protection, had promised no harm at all would ever reach him, and no one had dared question Aristos Achion. Of course it had been the prince himself to ruin it all.He shifted slightly, and wood creaked loudly under his feet.Patroclus scrambled to sit, head snapping towards Achilles, eyes widening, stretched long and straight like a frightened rabbit.They were fifteen again. Terrified. Enchanted.One moment, Patroclus shifted back, the next he had scrambled deeper into the hollow.“Wait!” Achilles leaped down, just in time to see Patroclus’ feet disappear through a break in the roots.
Before he knew it, Achilles had run after him.
They ran through the forest, weaving this side and that, dodging trees, leaping and ducking and they were wild things again, but all joy was gone.They were afraid. They were both desperate. It showed in how they stumbled, how they pushed themselves. Achilles knew he could do it again, he could reach him and leap to him and they would fall to the ground, and he could hold Patroclus down if he wanted, he could trap him.But he did not want to. He wanted Patroclus to choose. For once.“Please!”At his plea, everything slowed. Hoped bloomed inside his chest.“Patroclus, please!”And eventually stopped. A grace he himself had not allowed. It did not surprise him one bit that his beloved would be noble where he had been all rage, all boiling, sputtering pride.He stood a few paces from Achilles, shoulders hunched forward and shaking, and turned to look over his shoulder, unsure, a flinch from running again.“Please.” Achilles spoke softly, as gently as his sharp edges could go. “Don’t go.”Patroclus turned toward the blackness of the forest once more and slowed his breath. He turned fully, and watched Achilles for a long moment, before he stepped towards a nearby tree, carefully placing his conch over a branch, safe for the time being. He remained standing there.“Patroclus, I…”A look silenced him.Patroclus pointed at him. You. Then touched his fingers to his own mouth made a quick arch towards Achilles. Said.Hot shame washed over him. “I know. I promised nothing would harm you and I…”Patroclus shook his head. No! Then pointed at himself, tapped a hand over his chest. Me!He did not understand. He did not understand.“Patroclus, what…”A frustrated move, hands tossed to the sides, then a finger over Patroclus’ lips.
Quiet!
Achilles said no more, stood stiffly as he watched Patroclus walk to one side, then another, hands pushing his curls back. Suddenly, he pointed at Achilles once more. You. Then pointed at his own brows, made an exaggerated frown. Anger. Pointed at his chest once more. Me.He waited a moment, before he attempted to answer once more. “I am not angry at you,” he said, and hurried to add, fearing a disbelieving look tossed towards him, “I was angry, yes, I was so-” excuses, he was making excuses- “but I was wrong, I shouldn’t have-”An angry jab of finger pointed towards him, fingers to lips, then at him. You said. And once more, quicker. You said! Patroclus hands going round and around. Again and again! Furrowed brows, tapping at his chest. Angry at me!Then it made sense. He remembered, and it made sense.He had been angry at Patroclus, hadn’t he?Before he knew who Patroclus was, he had been angry. All for a lost prince no one remembers, he had hissed, his face tucked into his lover’s neck. And Patroclus had trembled the whole while, his breath stuttering. He had assumed the whole while it had been out of fear of the war. Of the death to come, of the gore that would find him at the healer’s tent.He had been afraid of him. Of his blind, violent, stupid rage. The whole timeHow could he had expected the truth out of him?Achilles approached him, slowly, “Patroclus,” his hands were up, placating, and the relief he felt when he was allowed closer had his breath stopping, “my love, my heart,” he was only a few paces from him, and even the dark he could see his lips press together, his trembling expression, “philtatos,” most beloved, “I am so sorry.”Those words felt new and heavy on his tongue, but righteous, correct. Patroclus’ eyes fell close, and his eyelashes grew wet again.“Please,” Achilles was so close he could have touched him. He did not, but his hands were close, so close, the tips of his fingers already warm, “please, forgive me.”I am sorry, he had written in his parting letter. I love you. Kind, to the very core. His heart golden and jeweled and warm, precious beyond words and belief and reason.A treasure Achilles had gone and squandered.A tear managed to slip by, and the prince of Phthia felt his own heart crack.“I’ve gone and made you cry again,” he said, voice unstable, thin, painful to the core.Patroclus took a step back, quick as he could go, and tore himself away. He shook his head violently, curls already a mess.
No!
He tapped his chest, frowned, jabbed a finger at Achilles.
I am so angry at you!
Then a frustrated sob. Hands scrubbing at watery eyes, refusal to continue weeping, stubborn, furious. He looked at Achilles and rested a hand over his heart.
I love you so much, and I am so angry at you!
If Patroclus smiled with his whole face, he weeped with his whole being, splotchy and messy, and wet. Never before had Achilles seen him shed more than a single tear, always calm and patient, and there he was, sniffing and rubbing at his nose, at his eyes, eyelashes heavy with salt, expression crumpled and squeezed in grief, breath stuttering as he he sobbed in near-silence.He looked frustrated. And tired.He was coming undone before Achilles’ eyes and, for the first time, it occurred to him that he hadn’t been the only one holding his feelings back.Patroclus had been kind always and, while Achilles knew of his tendency to put everyone else first, he never stopped to look and think.How selfish, he thought, as he approached his love, and tentatively reached for him. Patroclus watched him, his lungs still wrecked by strangled, stuttering sobs, but allowed him to touch, to reach for his arm, to slide down to his hands.Achilles went down on his knees.“I’m sorry,” he spoke before Patroclus could stop him, could truly be outraged by it all. The son of a goddess did not kneel for anyone, and Achilles himself did not kneel at all, but what else could he do but beg for forgiveness. “I have promised you so much, Patroclus,” he said, “and it had always been so easy.” He swallowed, a knot caught on his throat, a sting behind his eyes. “You always made it so easy for me, and at the first real trail I-” he could hear his voice breaking- “I failed you.”He dipped his head, and laid his forehead upon Patroclus’ knuckles.“What kind of man am I, to do that to you?” There was no rage left in him for a moment, and he felt naked without it. But then, he also felt free. He could think. And he could feel. “To my most beloved? To put everything on you?”It took only a moment, a breath, before Patroclus was on his knees as well. They reached for each other, in unison, as they always did.“I’m sorry,” he said, and squeezed his beloved, shifted until they sat together in the wet grass, Patroclus’ face hidden at the crook of his neck. “I will never do that to you again, I swear it.” Achilles kissed him, sealed each word with a touch of lips, against his shoulder, his neck, over his temple. “Patroclus.” He wanted to say his name forever. “No wonder you are afraid of me.”That seemed to startle Patroclus, enough to snap him into a straight line. He shook his head, almost desperate.
No!
Achilles cocked his head to one side, “you are,” then the other, “not afraid of me?”Again, Patroclus shook his head. No. Grabbed his face with one hand, tapped his fingers lightly over his cheekbone. Not of you.A hand found his chest, and tapped over his heart. You. That same hand reaching his hand, made a fist and twisted a couple times. Make. Tapping his own chest. Me. Fingers flicking something away, like a pebble being tossed. Away.“Never.” Achilles leaned forward, their foreheads touching. “I would never send you away.”Patroclus smiled, and slowly righted himself, stood only slightly wobbly, then offered a hand for Achilles to follow. He did, with no hesitation, and allowed himself to be guided through the dark woods. First towards the tree that held Patroclus’ conch. Then back between the ancient trunks.The night wasn’t silent, he realized for the first time. Crickets played around them, and small game scuttled away from their steps, rustling the underbrush as they hurried through. The wind was cool on their skin, and still-bare branches swayed along.Achilles bit his lip, and pressed himself closer. He spoke slowly, hesitantly. “Did you think I would strike you?”Patroclus did not look at him at first, but shook his head.
No.
Then tightened his hold on Achilles’ hand, still denying. Not you. He tapped his free hand to his temple. Think. Then made a wide arch with his arm, pushing air over his shoulder. Before.“Remembering.” He waited for Patroclus to nod. “You were remembering?”
Yes.
Patroclus itched at his throat, but continued walking.They found the usual tree, and slid down through the ancient roots together.It was quick work, familiar and soothing, to arrange dried leaves to use as bedding, to curl tightly together in the space that had long ago become too small for two grown men, to lay on their sides, legs tangled for warmth.Achilles’ hand found a familiar path, up an arm, the peak of a shoulder, the fine path of a clavicle. The hollow vee at the base of Patroclus’ throat, where he loved to plant kisses and leave marks. His breath stilled, as the Phthian prince’s palm found the scar, the raised skin there, more faded, except for the its jagged edges. Silvery pink, he knew without looking. He had kissed it enough times to know it blind.“Patroclus” he was whispering, “was it him?”Near-black eyes held his gaze. Then heavy eyelids fluttered close, his head lolled to the side, as if faint. Grief overtook his features, his breath stuttered. The pulse beneath the prince’s hand quickened. Patroclus feared. But he did not fear him.Then-Then, Achilles saw. Truly saw, as that Ithaca snake had said.All at once, he understood. That old fear, that old scar. Patroclus, afraid of someone, cowering and pleading at a memory. That monstrous king, his stellar act, his fingers carbuncled with jewels, how he snarled.Patroclus did not need to nod. Or sign.Achilles knew the answer.
Yes.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Morning came slowly.

Light filtered through bare branches, soft and pink, as songbirds woke all around them. They flitted from perch to perch and hopped over the ground, foraging for seed, their little claws raking at the dirt, beaks parting the grass. Achilles watched them quietly from the tree hollow, his beloved’s head resting on his shoulder, breath slow and deep and rhythmical.

He wondered about the palace. What his exit had done.

He was sure it
had
been his father calling after him as he ran through the orchards. The nobles had seen him running too, they had heard him calling for his companion desperately, and witnessed him tearing the garden in his haste, clawing at the ground and howling as a beast. What would they think? And the other kings? Was his mother standing on the beach still, hoping for her son to regret his choices?

Strangely, Achilles felt no worry. He felt peace. Satisfaction, perhaps.

Pride.

He felt as he had as a young boy, barely seven, standing at the top of a cliff and looking down at the waves, at the long drop, the shimmering gloss of sunshine over cerulean water. He had been told by everyone not to dot it, that water became as hard as rock if you dropped from high enough and, still, he had taken a running start. Then a leap and, as he fell, he had felt incredibly

calm.

He would reach the waves, in time, he knew. And he would sink, and then he would have to swim. And that was simple enough for him.

That was easy. It was natural. It was all

right.

He smiled, and buried his nose in dark curls, and he remained there, until arms went tighter around him.

Beside him, Patroclus stretched

- each leg, then his back, his shoulders, a creak on his neck -

and shifted his head, still pillowed by Achilles’ arm, just enough to look at him. Still puffy from the tears the previous night, hazy with sleep, eyes filled with sand. He blinked, bleary and confused for a long moment, then attempted to burrow back into his lover, away from the brightening daylight.

He was, very much, a mortal, who could not bounce back perfectly from grief, who got stuck in the grasps of heavy sleep, and remained tired for days. He was mortal and burned bright and fast and he was all the more beautiful for it.

Achilles watched him, more than content. Relieved to have him in his arms, to be allowed, still, to keep him safe, despite his failings. He leaned forward, until their noses met, delicately.

“My love,” he said, “do you dream, still? Or are you back to me?”

A hand came between them, tapped lightly over his heart.

Here.

Achilles smiled, “good,” then leaned lightly, so their lips brushed as he spoke, “could I tempt you towards the river?”

Delightfully, Patroclus took the chance to kiss at his bottom lip, then smiled against it.

Tempted he was, then.

They climbed out of their hollow together, and walked hand in hand through the woods.

All whimsy and joy was back, Achilles realized, as their fingers locked together. The breeze was cool and sweetly scented

- somewhere, in the forest, cherry trees bloomed -

and the ground beneath their feet had been warmed by the sun. Patroclus guided him through the bramble, used a hidden path made by deer where the earth was solid and soft, trampled mostly flat by years and years of creatures swaying tho and fro.

They reached the brook,

their

brook, and followed it down, where the water was deeper and pooled calm and steady. Their chitons went quickly, kept safe and dry over a sturdy branch. Achilles hissed at the unfamiliar water, cold from running through the rocks and sprouting from the ground, so devoid of salt and sunshine there, where it hid behind the trees. Patroclus huffed his silent laughter and braved the cold as well, teeth chattering until he dunked his head.

He emerged refreshed and fully awake, his cheeks and nose beautifully ruddy and, as he shook his head and sprayed water all around them, his curls went messy and wild, falling heavy over his eyes.

Achilles watched him. First, how he rubbed at his face, especially around his eyes, then at his body. His fingers making a serpentine shape, pointing at the deeper part.

Fish,

he said. Eventually, nude sitting over a flat stone, leaning back on his hands, head tilted towards the sky, enjoying the sun. Drying slowly, warm and safe, hair aflame and skin glowing.

Patroclus was, once again, a forest creature, and his face was his own, Achilles thought. The noble curve of his skull, the strength of his jaw, the royal outline made by his nose against the deep green of the forest. There was no denying his bloodline, no, but the prince no longer thought of ringed fingers and fake mourning. He thought of chirping birds and rosemary tickling his nose, and the pride his beloved held about the color of his eyes.

Just like mother’s.

He sighed, deep and rattling, then stepped out of the water.

Right.

“Patroclus,” he sat next to him. Slowly, dark eyes creaked open, and found him, already a worried glint to them. Achilles wished, not for the first time, that he could keep things as they were in their forest. That they could live there together, just the two of them. They would slowly build a hut to rest in, and hunt and fish and gather. In the summer they would pluck herbs and flowers from the ground and hang them to dry over their door, and Patroclus would keep little sprouts on every window. In the winter, Achilles would search for dry wood, and he would build a mighty fire they could sit next to. He would cure hides and furs for them to carry like capes over their shoulders and, when the nights were clear, they would sleep together under the stars. Life would be quiet and slow.

Alas, some dreams were not meant to be.

Achilles placed a hand over his beloved’s cheek, and smiled gently, tried to be soft, though it was not natural for him.

“We cannot just go back now, can we? To how everything was.”

A sigh left Patroclus, deep from his chest and out through his nose. He leaned into the prince’s hand, shifted until he could plant a kiss over his thumb.

No.

“We cannot.” Things had changed. Drastically. They were truly at war, and life would slowly be consumed by it. Blood would soak into their fields, and the air would grow heavy with smoke and iron and ash. People would suffer, taken to battle, attacked, hunted. Fathers would burn in the fields, and their daughters would be stolen, little children would be left to grow lonely and hurt.

Patroclus turned towards the river once more, a bitter turn to his lips. The prince watched him, the thoughtful turn of his brow.

“That face means trouble,” he said, “I know because I make it often. You’ve told me.”

An unsatisfied grimace, though a touch humorous, and a sideways, unimpressed, glance.

I’m not you.

“You are even more stubborn than me, my love, when you want to be.”

Like a mule,

went unsaid, proud as he was of that fact. Dealing with the violently injured, wrestling Death itself. Standing up to Achilles’ Goddess mother. He could not help the smile that tugged at his lips, or to lean into Patroclus’ space to kiss his bare shoulder. Their heads touched lightly, forehead to dark hair. “What are you thinking?”

A moment of silence, and then hands lifted. Achilles sat to attention, as his companion turned in his seat. His hands went horizontal, and moved towards each other, left and right. Dogs snarling and circling each other, the dance of soldiers with spears at each other’s neck.

Battle.

Then a single hand, tapping flat against the center of his chest.

Mine.

His war?

Patroclus grimaced, and pushed his wet hair back, away from his troubled face.

There is a war on my name.

“It is not your fault,” he spoke earnestly, honestly, but Patroclus was already shaking his head, huffing, tapping at his chest with his palm, again and again. “Patroclus, it is not.”

My responsibility.

“It does not have to be.” It didn’t.

It didn’t.

He had no control over his father’s choices or schemes, and Achilles would ensure his safety, no matter what. He would not allow anyone to pull Patroclus into it, would not let them even suggest such a thing.

Unless.

Of course.

“You want it to be?”

A hand chopping down at the air, harsh. Quick.

I want it to end.

Many things made sense to Achilles then, he realized. The constant toiling at the healer’s room, the hours spent grinding herbs into paste, bottling to tuck into soldier’s supplies, the sorrow at every life lost. The mangled state of his hands, once soft. The ways Patroclus had always been there, listening intently, as Achilles whined about the council. His dead eyes, lost in the horizon, if left to his thoughts for too long.

It had been, at least in part, been guilt eating at him, like ants crawling in his insides and gnawing little pieces off his heart, painstakingly rubbing at him until left bloody and tender and hollow.

And his secret, his

deadly

secret, a boulder chained to his neck pulling him into the dark abyss, the bottomless pit that was despair.

Achilles wanted to take him away from it all, towards a safe, soft life, but that would not help, he knew. They could run together to end of the world, to the farthest, most hidden of forests, and still, that hand holding Patroclus by the throat, stealing his breath, his restful sleep, would come right along with him. It would choke him in the night and steal the light out of his eyes and nothing would be able to chase it away.

He valued life too much. He held too much compassion. And so, that ill-informed guilt would never leave him.

“Your father,” his hands went up a familiar path, up an arm, lining the peak of a freckled shoulder and down his clavicle. Up, gingerly, to find the silvery line marring his beloved’s throat. “He did this to you. To make you his excuse for war.” Achilles grimaced. “It is all based on a lie, all this bloodshed. If the Kings knew. If the allies of Opus knew-”

He stopped, for a moment.

“How dishonorable,” he said, very, very low, softer than a whisper. Then, he looked at his companion. “Right?”

Patroclus, slowly, nodded, though he cocked his head to the side.

Sure?

“Those kings-” Achilles stood and walked along the muddy edge of the river, stepping on smooth stones and his toes digging into mud, every step squelching- “only care about honor and reputation and glory.”

Dark eyes followed him from side to side. Patroclus sat straighter, nodded once again.

Right.

“If they knew of Menoitius’ scheming, if we shamed him in front of the rest of the kings-” he turned fully to Patroclus, whose eyes flicked down and then very quickly towards his face, blood high on his cheeks- “if you told them-”

A hand came up, flat, palm towards the rambling prince.

Patroclus grimaced, then pointed to his throat, as he shook his head.

I cannot speak.

“I understand you just fine.”

An annoyed huff. Patroclus hands went to the top of his head, fingers forming a circlet, placing the imaginary golden crown atop his curls.

Kings.

He shook his head, brought his hand to rest over his chest, his shoulder leaning forward, a gentle embrace.

Not kind.

A slender finger, pointing to Achilles.

You.

Not all royalty would be as kind to me as you’ve been.

It was Achilles’ turn to huff. “I have been decent at best.”

Patroclus rolled his eyes.

Not the point!

He knew, of course. Many thought Patroclus simple and incapable, once they realized he could not speak. His days had been plagued by people screaming at him, exaggeratedly pronouncing each syllable, over explaining the simplest of concepts, if not simply dismissing him. He had always been gracious about it, choosing to earn respect through hard work, no matter how little of his effort others deserved.

Achilles never had patience for those insulting his beloved. A snarl and a venomous glare over his shoulder usually corrected the situation quick enough.

But kings and princes?

The wealthy?

“What if I spoke for you?”

Patroclus watched him for a moment, eyes looking especially wide and lovely as he glanced up at him. Then, all at once, he sighed, and all air left him. He seemed to crumble a little, and he watched the river instead, the glittering light flickering over the gentle running of the water.

That old frustration was back, tensing his shoulders, his jaw, pursing his lips, and the prince remembered him crying silently in the night, forcefully rubbing at his eyes, the choppy, angry movement of his hands as he tried to explain himself.

He knelt once more, before him, and gently cupped Patroclus’ jaw, waited for dark eyes to meet his.

“You want to tell them yourself.”

Exhausted grief.

That was a good description, Achilles thought, of the expression overtaking his handsome face. His eyelids seemed heavy as they fell shut, how his brows crumpled and the corner of his lips tucked down. Sadness, carried for too long, enough burrow and grow roots.

I can’t,

he did not need to sign. Achilles felt the meaning, in how air got stuck in his chest.

“You want to.”

Finally, Patroclus nodded, and then sat back once more, to create just enough space to speak. His arms bent before him, close to his belly, and he cradled the air, gently.

Mother.

His fingers touched his mouth, and then went out.
Speak.
The finger-crown once more, rightfully resting on his head.

Kings.

And then, a deadly move over his throat, as if he held a knife and sliced at his own neck. Achilles did not wish to dwell on that move. Not at the moment.

I want to tell them what he did to my mother.

Fingers to his mouth, then pointing at the prince.

Tell you!

That horrifying, damned knife move, quicker, desperate, quick tapping at his chest.

What he did to me!

“I want to know,” Achilles told him, and went to take his hands, to press them to his own, and kissed his knuckles. He knew not how to help him, could do nothing to give him back his voice, not even to make others just

understand, look at him, it’s not so hard!

Patroclus gave him a tight smile, genuine but painful, and leaned forward, until their foreheads met. They nuzzled together, and shared their breath, sighed in unison.

Then, suddenly, dark eyes flew open, and Patroclus leaned back, quick.

Achilles himself jumped too. His mind flew towards

danger.

Towards

protect.

“What is it?”

Quickly, brown hands began to sign, movement around his head, as if pulling threads from his mind and weaving them, mouth moving as if speaking.

Story.

Then, two fingers pressed to a pulse, tapping at his temple, and back.

Healer.

Immediately intrigued, the prince leaned forward. “Who? A healer who could help you?”

Patroclus looked worried, his hands going to press at the sides of his head.

I hope?

Better than nothing.

“Where?”

Patroclus’ chin jutted towards him.

You.

And then his hands formed a peak, then went big, all around him, very tall, then very wide.

Mountain.

It took a moment for Achilles to understand.

His mountain,

he had interpreted. The pieces fell together once Patroclus signed for a third crown, made to rub at his beard, gave a nervous imitation of a charming, slightly impish, smile.

Peleus.

His

father’s

mountain.

“Mount Pelion.”

Patroclus bit his lip, as he signed once more for the mountain, for the healer, then made a move with his hands, like stars coming from his eyes, starting small, growing and growing.

A great healer that lives in Mount Pelion.

A shape like wind, made by fingers, bursting from a loose fist and into his ear, and then a nervous shrug.

Or so I heard.

Achilles watched him for a moment, the nervous flitting of his eyes, from the ground to the river, sometimes finding the prince once more, and he realized. Patroclus thought he asked for too much, the fool. It made the prince smile. As if he didn’t know that he only need ask for the moon, for the sea to part, and Achilles himself would have it done himself.

“Well,” he leaned farther in, low, so he their eyes could meet, “I did bring a horse.”
   
The road ahead of them had been scorched at the edges, paper held too close to a flame. Its burning scent permeated everything around them. War, it seemed, had made a home along with the common people. Its seeds had been planted long ago by the galloping soldiers and their purple-and-gold flags and, while the kings and nobles discussed in the shade of their halls, drinking and singing of their future glory, the fiery blooms had spread and consumed everything around them.

Empty farms, littered and broken, dotted the vast fields ever expanding around them. Abandoned helmets and broken swords sparkled in the morning sun from their resting places, hidden in the forgotten, rotting, seas of barley.

Still, they’ve found their sandals, left near the tree line, and untied Achilles horse, and walked to the nearest stead, guided by the smoke of cooking fires and the hushed voices of nervous merchants.

In exchange for the hammered gold of Achilles’ belt, for the fine brooch which had once clasped his deep blue cape, they had gotten just enough supplies for the road. Traveler’s cloaks to start, heavy and somewhat scratchy, but sturdy and more than warm for the still-cool nights. A bag deep enough for both of them too, along with bits of jerky, of dried fruit, some flattened bread, but not much else. Achilles insisted in parchment and a pencil too. Patroclus asked for a spindle and fleece. A length of rope, an extra blanket, a pair of rusting spears.

Just in case.

Their days were spent walking. They took turns riding their mount, a small, dappled gray mare, which Patroclus had taken to calling Anthe

- he had insisted she was ‘a little lady,’ her velvety nose nudging at his shoulder, asking for the bunch of tall grass he held in his hands.

Sleep came to them hidden in nearby fields, tucked tightly together, obscured by stray bramble, their hands clasped tightly. They watched the stars and woke with the sun and, when they could, they washed in strange brooks and caught fish with their hands.

They stopped sometimes, when they felt they could. A few hours were spent in a lonely farm, fixing the roof for a mother of four. They’d watch her and the eldest work the fields from the top of her home and, when they finished, she fed them porridge, watery but filling. A few days later, Patroclus had spent some time teaching. Children, both girls and boys gathered around him as he showed them how to grind the marigolds growing around their fields, how to mix with oil, to grind it all with a stone, to store in a cool place. Achilles sat beside him, and spoke only when prompted.

Burns,

he told them,

place it over the reddened skin and leave it there.

They would search for roaming merchants, peruse their meager wares, exchange their smallest silver coins for information.

A great healer,

they would say and be regaled by stories.

A hermit who can cure it all,

said by the man selling pottery by the shade of a tree.

A demigod bestowed with the knowledge of medicine,

a boy, barely grown, with a basket of too-ripe fruits and bruised vegetables in hand
.

He talks to no one,

a grandmother, a set of three toddlers, holding her skirts,

but his skill is true.

That kept them going.

Some days, they sat by the road and allowed their horse to roam, to gnaw at the grass sprouting from the muddy trail they followed. Patroclus would gather, and Achilles would lean his head on his shoulder, watched his hands as they tied sprigs of herbs together with stray bits of fleece and hung them off his belt, or pressed them carefully between parchment, tucked them in their bag.

Once, they braided the horse’s mane and laughed at how badly it turned out.

They enjoyed what they could, when they could, as they always had, together.

Until, one day,

finally,

they stood at the shadows of the Mount Pelion.

It was a thickly, forested thing. Unruly, overgrown,
unyielding.
The kind of place men would be wary to step into, loath to fall to its gnarled maw, to become entangled in the thorny vines and consumed by the ancient, verdant, creature.

What if they aren’t even real?

Patroclus had asked him, just a couple moons ago.

“We think of something else,” Achilles hadn’t hesitated, and he was thankful for that, “and we try again.”

They shared no words as they walked forward, Leda left safely tied in the shade.

It was a struggle, though they were steadier than most for sure, Achilles with his divine blood and Patroclus experienced as he was moving through the brush. The trees were tightly packed together, the ground hard, at times sharp, and, unlike
their
forest, no animals had been gracious enough to forge paths for their human visitors. Because there were no visitors, only ever intruders, hunters and foragers with terrible manners, selfish and rough.

They were not that, though. At least Patroclus was not, with how carefully he stepped, how silently, and, with his guidance, Achilles could be a gracious being as well.

It took them a full day of sweat and nervous, quiet searching, of their eyes flitting towards any sort of movement, scanning what little sky they could see through the lush branches for smoke, examining the twisting trunks of oaks for marking made by men, with an ax or knife, the ground for broken arrowheads, a bow snapped.

Nothing.

Patroclus gnawed at his lower lip as they broke through the trees into a clearing, hope already watery and thin.

Empty.

“We’ve barely started,” Achilles whispered, and reached for his hand, pressed it against his chest. “We have a full mountain to search.”

Careful, slow nodding.

“How strange is it,” he asked, “that

I

am about to ask

you

to be patient.”

Patroclus looked blankly towards the forest, then up at the heavens, as if asking the gods for mercy.

“Fine, I will not.” Achilles laughed, then quickly kissed the hand he held. “I will ask you to be stubborn instead.”

That, at least, got his companion to smile.

“So we-”

Snap!

A branch nearby.

A shadow, tall and broad, approached them, stepped though the bramble with no hesitation.

Before them, stood half a man, half a horse.

A centaur, with slender, chestnut legs, and the muscular torso of an older man, bare chested, dark haired.

They’ve heard stories of centaurs before, long ago roaming the forests near Pelion, descending to the fields in stampedes and raiding the villages nearby. Drinking wine into violent stupors, stealing brides, trampling crops. But the creature that stood before them seemed steady. Seemed calm. Still, Achilles made a point to shift his foot in front of Patroclus, ready to step between them, should the need arise.

“I have been hearing whispers,” said the centaur, his eyes brown and wise as he examined them, “of two young men searching for me.” He walked steadily around the clearing, his gait long, his expression serious. “What do you need from me?”

“We,” Achilles swallowed the need to clear his throat, to balance his stance out, “are searching for a great healer said to live in this mountain.”

“That would be me, yes,” he said, patient enough, not exactly pleased, “Chiron.”

Then a swat at his arm called Achilles’ attention. Patroclus shot him a meaningful look, half a glare.

Behave,

it said.

He swallowed a huff.

“I am Achilles of Phthia, son of Peleus” his hand tapped at his chest, and then made a sweeping motion towards his companion, “and this is Patroclus-” a hand at his shoulder, followed by the slightest of reassuring pressures- “Patroclus of Opus.”

Chiron inclined his head. One of his ears, a floppy, velvety thing on the side of his head, twitched slightly.

“We have traveled all the way from Phthia to ask for your help.”

The centaur’s eyes fell on Patroclus then and he, in turn, nodded, then inclined his head back and to the side, the very end of his scar, pointed at his throat silently.

Nothing else was said, there seemed to be little need. Puzzle pieces fell for the centaur, and he hummed lowly as he thought. He stepped towards them, his hooves crunching at the smooth pebbles beneath them. Achilles seemed to vibrate where he stood, but a warm hand on his forearm kept him in place and calm enough to breath. Chiron did not touch, but inclined his head and examined the scar closely, his brows flat and serious, mouth twitching to the side in the ghost of a grimace.

“I see,” he said, finally, and met Patroclus’ eyes. “Very well, then.”

He stood to height once more, and turned carefully, his horse half rotating in place, legs navigating around each other. He bounced lightly as he trotted towards the tree line, and turned his head to glance back at them.

“Follow me.”

Mount Pelion was not meant to be climbed by men, with its goat paths and thick, thorny underbrush and jagged stones.

Chiron was considerate, walking slowly as he guided his guests, opening paths through the bramble for them to pass through safely, and waiting until they caught up if they ever fell back, their hands grasping at low branches and juts in the jagged rocks, large enough to act as steps.

It took until sunrise but, eventually, they broke through the trees and came to a clearing, golden under the rising sun.

Suddenly, the forest became familiar to them. A gentle hold of rock-and-tree fingers, intertwined, inexorably joined, roots cracking stone and digging into the earth, soft grass somehow finding a home in the basin their refuge hid upon. Everything seemed overgrown, yet carefully tended to. Vines climbed every rock wall, twisting and knotting, falling in curtains. Near the center, there was a pit fit for a mighty fire, dug shallow and lined with squared stoned. Beyond it, the entrance of a cave, animal hides acting as doors.

It felt, strangely, like a

home.

Chiron let out a relieved sigh, and walked towards the cave. “Now,” he said, as he lifted his satchel, left it to hang hooked over a branch. He took a moment to roll his shoulders. “I gather your injury is old. That scar seems faded.”

Patroclus nodded slowly, and cautiously leaned his head to the side. Like always, his gaze was quick, bouncing from the centaur’s hands, how he left his belonging and did not go to grab anything, the way he advanced towards them once more, stance relaxed enough to be deemed safe. His judgment, as always, was enough for Achilles, who refrained from stepping between them. For the moment, at least.

“It is healed then, the scar looks clean,” he said, and frowned, “tell me what made you travel so far to find me.”

Rather than sign, Patroclus went straight to the point. He opened his mouth and, with great effort, made to speak, to make a sound,

any

sound. Achilles’ hand found the center of his back, just as he managed to release a scratchy, ugly whisper, wet and painful and short and. A coughing fit seized him and the prince rubbed between his shoulders patiently, until he calmed and breathed easier once again.

“I understand.” Chiron’s tail moved slightly behind him, the coarse hairs heavy in the wind, as he watched them intently. Gently, very slowly, he stepped towards them, eyes remaining on Patroclus. His hand went up, and he gestured. “May I,” he asked, and went no further, until he received consent.

Achilles stayed close either way, cat’s eyes sharp and shoulders held taut as the centaurs hands reached his

most beloved

. He thought of the dagger hanging off his belt.

“Tilt your head up, please.” He guided Patroclus by the chin, very slowly, and turned him left and right, watched the scar tissue pull at soft skin. “I will touch your throat now.” Then his fingers traced the silvery line. “And now I will apply some pressure.” His thumb found purchase on Patroclus’ chin, while his fingers traveled from the vase of his neck, methodically up, stopping at the nest just above the bump of his throat. “Could you swallow?” He felt it bob up against the pads of his fingers, firmly. He hummed, and nodded to himself.

What did that mean?

“Thank you, Patroclus.” He stepped back then, and inclined his head towards them both.

Chiron turned, and walked towards the cave entrance. With a sweeping motion of his arm, he invited them inside.

“When the injury was made,” there was wooden table inside, constructed in raw wood, simply oiled and left to shine on its own, where bowls lay stacked and stone knives were kept submerged point-down inside a lumpy, clay vase, “I believe nothing was broken or cut irreparably.” Patroclus cocked his head, eyes wide. “Yes, the cut was deep, but it hit the-” the centaur watched him point at the knob on his throat- “yes,

yes,

exactly.” There was excitement on his voice, very slight, a little hidden, but very much there. Perhaps he had not had a chance to speak to someone for some time, and not one who was as quick as the young healer before him. “Perhaps the blade was caught on the hard tissue there and since, I assume, you were quite young...”

Patroclus nodded slowly, thinking, a hand over his chin, ring finger tapping at the corner of his mouth. Achilles, for his part, glanced between them, left and right and back.

“What does that mean?”

Chiron was quick to answer, reaching for his smallest knife and a shallow bowl, then walking towards the opposite side of the cave, lined with hanging herbs stung up and pinned to the stone. “That this will be, perhaps, not so hard to fix.” He began cutting at brittle stalks, dropping a few ingredients in, always kept an eye towards his guests. “Who treated your wound, Patroclus?”

A hand flat against his chest.

Myself.

“How, if I may know?”

Patroclus stood taller then, and gestured towards the bag still hanging off Achilles’ shoulders. The prince opened it for him, held it up with a hand cupping the bottom as his companion dug into memorized pockets, came to a flat fold of parchment. He held it delicately, preciously, as he opened it, and showed Chiron the pressed, dried herb inside.

A long stalk, which held prickly leaves, and sprouted at the end in a cluster of little, white flowers. All brittle and fragile, but expertly kept whole. Achilles knew it well from watching his beloved at work. Hours of careful gathering, wading through the tall grass of their fields, at the edges of the forest, and then diligent drying. He’d offered the dust to their soldiers, to every man who left the healer’s room. For Achilles, though, he always seemed to save the fresh flowers.

Recognition came over the centaur’s features, and a strange pride bloomed in his eyes, brightened as in satisfaction.

“I see,” he said, and then nodded.

“
Very well done.”

In turn, Patroclus gave a brittle smile. Chiron cocked his head to the side.

“Who taught you this?”

Achilles came to attention as he was beaconed closer, then watched as Patroclus nervously touched his fingers to his own mouth, then went to move them towards Achilles, his head leaning slightly in Chiron’s direction.

Translate for me?

“Of course.”

Patroclus sighed, nervous, but jumped straight into his explanation. His hands went back over his shoulder, many times over, then went to brush at imaginary long, long hair. The prince cocked his head, but translated immediately. “Old woman.” Tapping over his heart. “Grandmother?” Nodding. This was news to Achilles too, but he supposed he had never questioned Patroclus’ knowledge. It had simply been his wisdom, how to stitch someone back together. He continued translating as a hand brushed the air away. “Later-” fingers to his pulse, then rubbing his beard, pointing at his serious brows- “Machaon, the head healer in Phthia.”

Chiron nodded along with it all, bringing his herbs towards the table, grabbing a clay pot of honey as he passed by a trunk-shelf, finding his pestle nestled on a leather wrap.

Achilles still watched them, slowly growing impatient. “His voice-”

The centaur smiled, as if expecting him. “He treated his would well, and I believe whoever slashed his throat did not manage to cut at his voice.” This time, Patroclus nodded along, intently watching the mix of herbs, how they were crushed and ground. “But the injury would have hardened the area. And the disuse would have exacerbated the problem. Think of it as any injured muscle left to it’s own devices.”

Achilles could do that. He could think of a twisted ankle, painfully swollen, but kept cold for too long, becoming stiff with time, developing into a lasting limp. But things such as that could be fixed, with care and work, and that determined patience only mortals possessed.

Chiron’s attention remained on Patroclus, as he gestured him closer, so he could watch him work the coarse herb-sand into dust so fine a breeze could send it up to the clouds. “You are able to make noise, but it is uncomfortable, isn’t it?”

Nodding.

Yes.

“Painful?”

His hand made an absentminded movement, rotating in his wrist quickly.

Somewhat.

“I can help you,” he concluded, finally.

The smile that overtook Patroclus’ face was brilliant and contagious. Achilles found himself mirroring it.

Thank you!

“It will take time.” This time, Chiron turned towards the prince.

“That is perfectly fine.” So long as Patroclus got what he wanted, what he
needed,
after so long, to

finally-

The pestle thudded heavily against the table. “Good.” Patroclus already found himself busy, untying the cloth covering the honey as Chiron smiled down at him. “Then, we begin today.”
 
Days came, and then went, and settled lightly on the ground around them, like bright, yellow pollen or the aromatic blossoms from plum trees, fallen in their haste for the arrival of fruit. It was all sweetness and delight an d warmth.

Achilles felt himself thrive.

Throughout his life, he had been told many things regarding destiny and legend. It had been told, according to his mother, that he was to be greater than his father. His father, who had sailed the Argos along great heroes, who had touched the legendary Golden Fleece, and watched the taming of dragons, been tempted by sirens. His father, who was a great king, noble and just.

Your greatness will come from battle,

would hiss his mother, with her craggy whisper of a voice,

a battle you will win and, once you are cloaked in glory, once you have a crown resting upon your head, you shall ascend.

He had never questioned it, not once. He’d win a battle, march home golden in divinity, and he would become the immortal king of Phthia and, eventually, he would take station in Olympus.

Then, he had tasted true

freedom.

One day. At fifteen. Chasing a boy through the woods.

The wind hitting his face, making his hair whip behind him. How his feet dug into the earth, mud clinging to the end of his fine clothes, bramble slapping his calves. The image of the boy, silently dodging left and right, flying and ducking and scrambling away, his shoulder blades rippling the brown skin of his back, powerful legs thumping at the ground.

He thought he loved him from that moment. The one who

showed

him. Or perhaps love came later. When he’d seen him up to his neck in water, sleepy in the warmth. At the feeling of his index finger delicately spelling over the prince’s palm. Maybe it had been his quick eyes, richly brown, round and wide. How they crinkled when he smiled, how they

rolled

at his antics. Their starry, obsidian shine.

Either way, he did show the world to Achilles. He made him

want

and

think.

The forest in Pelion, as the prince trekked through it spear in hand, burst with life and sound, and Achilles loved every moment of it.

Birds, big and small, populated the trees which such energy the canopy shook from their joy, the air filled with the squabbles and songs. There were rabbits, of course, and deer and boars, goats kept by Chiron, in neat, little pens, protected from wandering wolves. At the rapid rivers, fish leaped from the water, twisting in delight at their strength, climbing waterfalls, fighting currents.

The prince felt he understood, and so, let them all be. There was no need to hunt or fish that day, for they had enough. It was a joy to watch it all instead, to hold no violence in his stance, and no expectation for it, for once.

But the most joyous thing was, without a doubt, watching Patroclus thrive as well.

To watch him learn under Chiron’s tutelage, to see him heal, with hope blooming in his eyes.

To

hear

him go from silence, to hum, to note.

And, though he dare not rush the process,
soon,
he thought.

Soon!

It was with that thought that he found himself back in the centaur’s home, arms spilling with the dried wood he had gathered, dropped in a pile nearby.

“Achilles.”

Chiron called the prince, and gestured slowly for him to step closer, towards the fire, where Patroclus sat, holding his cup up to his nose. Steam rose from his drink, and he inhaled it steadily and deeply. His eyes flickered towards them as Chiron’s hooves crunched against the dry earth. He smiled, though there was a nervous turn to his brows.

“Now, Patroclus,” said the centaur, one big, floppy ear twitching, flicking a stray insect away. He smiled the whole time, taking the sweet smelling cup away from Patroclus, herb crusted pestle and sticky honey and fruit juice, casting it to the side. “Show him.”

Achilles did not understand, but he watched quietly either way as Patroclus nodded. To them, to himself, he wasn’t entirely sure.

He took a deep breath.

His lips parted.

“Ah.”

It was a wounded sound, raspy and husky and painful, but there.
There.
Present and audible and beautiful like birdsong, like the crashing of waves and the whistling of the wind, rustling through leaves, fresh, perfumed by spring. All things warm and gentle and soft. He hurried to Patroclus’ side, who received him with outstretched arms, their hands meeting and holding on to each other, squeezing, their excitement palpable static in the air between them. “Patroclus!”

He smiled.

“‘Lles,”

he said, then scrunched his nose, gingerly cleared his throat. Chiron hummed encouragingly, one hand resting over Patroclus’ shoulder, squeezing softly. A deep breath. A cough.

“‘Chilles,”

he said, very, very low. Achilles felt himself smile,
beam,
squeeze his love’s hands harder, always carefully, heart swelling with hope. Finally,

finally.

Patroclus met his eyes, stubborn glint in the caramel flecks over rich brown.

And after years, it happened.

Finally,

finally,

it happened.

“Achilles.”

This,

he thought,

is glory.

He could do nothing but embrace his beloved, hard, to pull him closer than ever. “Patroclus,” he said and felt relief, he felt bliss, “oh, Patroclus,” he wanted to cry. They remained there, temple against temple, mostly oblivious to the clopping of hooves moving from them. Achilles kissed behind his ear and followed the edge of his jaw all the way to his chin, and then nuzzled their foreheads together, enamored once more.

“My Patroclus.”

Laughter, still half a breath, but not quite silent anymore. It cut off sometimes, and still, the prince thought it the most beautiful sound.

“Yours?”

He squawked, as if affronted by the question, if only to hear him laugh once more.

“Yes.”

And then, Patroclus leaned forward, brushing their lips together as he asked

“mine?”

“Always,” he answered, stopped in wonder, “always yours, my love.”
  
Patroclus was an endless fountain of thoughts, it turned out.

Achilles

l
oved it.

He had not been surprised in the least to learn his beloved was a poet at heart. The sky was not just blue, but

bright

and

open

and

light.

Rivers did not simply run, but

washed and sung along,

they

babbled

and

murmured,

while the breeze

whispered.

Crickets

chirped,

cicadas

rung,

bumblebees

hummed.

Deer were

noble

, goats

troublemakers,

boars were, laughably yet accurately,

assholes.

Gulls

laughed,

crows

cackled,

and songbirds -

oh songbirds -

there were

ballads

and

ditties

and

jigs,

and they

whistled

and

trilled.

And Achilles’ eyes were not green, he had learned. They were

emerald,

they were

deep, sunny forest.

They were

clovers

and

rosemary sprigs

and the iridescent shine of

hummingbird’s wings.

His hair was

sunshine bright

and

spun gold.

His hands were not rough, they were

sturdy,

they were

sure,

and his voice was

melodious, like a silver bell.

To finally see the world through Patroclus’ eyes, to appreciate its beauty, it was a

wonder.

And the way he said his
name,
always like he was making up for lost time.

“Achilles,” in lieu of a greeting, a smile on his face as he welcomed him back from his hunt.

“’Chilles,” sleepy, in the middle of the night and,

“Achilles!”

hidden in a gasp, moments later, a hand grasping tightly, deliciously so, at his hair,

sunshine bright.

And then, “Achi-” in cut-off reproach as he was eyed with suspicion, moment before tumbling together back into sheets and furs. Low, raspy laughter, hands cupping his face, lips crashing hungry,

famished,

against lips.

Days went by, a couple weeks even, as Patroclus’ voice grew steadier.

Like any other muscle,

Chiron had said, he would learn to move and use, he would gain endurance, and he would earn fines, to a point.

Perhaps you will never become a singer,

a smile on his wise face,

but you will certainly tell your tales.

And tell he would, one night, once his voice grew strong enough.

Patroclus sat on a stone, late at night, watching the dying embers that had been their cooking fire. Chiron had retired early, a knowing glint to his eyes, and serious turn to his lips. When Achilles approached his heart, he turned, and smile and then sighed.

“Hello,”

he said, with his new, raspy voice.

Achilles stood beside him, and guided his head to rest against him, onto the curve of his waist. Dark curls pressed against him, and the prince of Phthia was unable to contain himself. He bent, and kissed the top of his head. “Hello, beloved.”

Patroclus turned on his seat and leaned in further, pressed his face more firmly into him, and hid there. There was something on his mind, Achilles knew. There was nothing, after all, that he knew better than his love.

Nimble fingers dug into dark curls, and gently brushed them back. “Patroclus,” his hands slipped down, fingers gently tracing the curve of his skull, the shell of his ear, until they settled to hold his jaw, “what is it?”

Patroclus took a moment to breath. To hold himself as close as he could to Achilles, knowing it would keep him safe and steady. Eventually, he tilted his head up, and looked at the prince, teeth gnawing at his lower lip.

“I want to tell you a story.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Opus had always been blessed by plenty.
Or, at least, that was what everyone said.
Plenty, meant fertile land, flourishing with nutrients, dark and wet through the year despite the season. It was fields of golden stalks swaying in the breeze, and rows and rows of fruit trees, perfectly lined and kept, baskets filled to the brim with bounty, carried over the shoulders of strong men, work-sturdy, rough and reliable. It was platters of olives, pitted and pressed, and bowls upon bowls of almonds and walnuts, cracked and cut.Plenty was the sea which faced them, glittering like jewels, calm in the hold of their shores. It was fishermen sailing every morning, their nets flying in and diving down, pulled back with the strain of weight. Fish fresh from the depth, still wriggling in their traps, silver and copper and gold their scales.Plenty was their people, who worked sun-up to sun-down and sun-up again. It was the merchants in their streets, and those on the roads. It was the weavers and their looms and the shepherds and those who worked the fields. It was their dance, their music, their poetry, traveling the land, carried by the wind.And plenty was, but of course, their royal house.King Menoitius, son of Actor, whose blood went back all the way to Father Zeus himself-
Which son of Zeus again? No offense.
- was a powerful king, who had fought for his place at the throne with spear and shield and sword, with claw and fang. He was respected. A strong man, with a stronger will, and the resources most kingdoms only dreamed of. Rivers of coin and gems for every finger, and legions of men to heed his command.Most importantly, he had high aspirations. For more.Presented with a young bride who carried a lavish dowry he could hardly deny his future.But she had been young and, many say, simple.
Whatever that means.
He had been deceived, thought the king. He had been promised a beautiful bride, one he could show off with pride hanging off his arm, one who would charm and enchant his guests, who would sing softly and sweetly, a little bird in her gilded cage.Instead, there she was, dribbling wine on her dress. No matter , he said, and burdened her with his ring and dragged her along.She was pleasing enough.  A fact: one will say anything to dodge the wrath of angry, powerful men.Many things had been promised about the young Queen Philomela. Some, like her dark beauty, her extravagant wealth, had been nothing but divine truths. Her skin was warm and smooth, her hair wild as it framed her face, curls artfully arranged around her head, braided with silk ribbons, and on her eyes rested two obsidian stones, dark as night and just as filled with stars. Her voice was lovely, soft and melodious, sweet like breeze. Along with her came hammered gold, came boxes spilling with jewel and coin, bowls and vases of the finest craftsmanship, painted with delicacy and legendary skill. There were instruments too: an aulos carved from pure white ivory, a harp tall and glossy with oils, an exquisite lyre heavy with golden inlays. Exotic spices, rare feathers, rolls of fabric from all over the world, tinted bright blue, purple, blood red.But the priestesses had also promised her fruitful.
For fear of disrespecting, I suspect.
Yet another disappointment for the king of Opus.It was a dull life, that of waking, waiting, laying. And month after month, the moon waxed and bloomed and withered and swelled, and still, blood came. Scrubbed off her sheets with salts. And with each passing attempt the king grew bitter and impatient and harsh.No one really bothered to ask sweet Philomela, with her soft eyes - red-rimmed, dulling - for her thoughts. Had she pleaded to her husband? To the gods? Had she known to kneel and pray? Had she been allowed?Gods, or nature, luck. Matter, it did not for, eventually, blessedly, blood did not come.She sang all day, they said, a hand resting over her belly. Her senseless, little ditties, flew from her window, light as blooms carried by the wind, and she was calm.Meanwhile, Menoitius planned.He was to have a son, he knew. He was owed the blessing of an heir, his honor demanded it. He would have a son who would be a warrior, who rode his chariot with raging, black horses, fire at their hooves, and spears would fly from his hands and men would cower and die. He would be a conquerer, cold-headed, hard-hearted, that would bring treasure and win land, and collect prizes of slaves and beautiful women. He would be a fine ruler, who would grow in court, conniving as a snake, quick to strike and charm.Fast. Strong. Worthy. He would have a son who would bring glory to their name.Soon, Prince Patroclus, son of Menoitius, was born.Small and slightly early. Quietly. He had not wailed much, and from then, his father had begun to dread. He had expected the strong lungs of a roaring lion cub, the kicking and screaming of one come to fight. Instead, he watched that small, purplish thing, dark-eyed, in his simple mother’s arms, grabbing at her hair, cooing gently.Quickly, all hope for that warrior son sublimated from the king’s mind, the crystallized images of falling kingdoms and riches flooding at his feet cracking into a thousand shards of disappointing shine.His son grew, yes, but not by much. Not enough. He remained thin compared to his peers, and his demeanor much too gentle. He’d stare up at his father with big, round eyes, dark and much too fearful. He’d flinch at loud noises, he’d hold onto his mother’s skirt and gently pat her hand. Not made for battle. Tutors, standing under the sun, over the trampled sand, informing the king of their quick conclusions. Their shadows were too tall and pure darkness to the boy’s eyes, gripping a too-big spear. Delicate hands, they said, laughter in their voice. More of a musician, perhaps?
I was happy about that. Mother loved music.

But.

Father was not so happy.
A slap echoing against the walls.The little prince, crumbling to the ground, arms flying to protect his head, his face. The strange taste of iron in his mouth, his nose filling with warm liquid, baby teeth falling from his mouth. A sharp cry. His mother, her soft, warm body falling over him, curling tightly around him, grasping and pulling desperately, trying to gather him up as small as she could.Then a snarl. A beast, a monster.
He grabbed Mother by the hair and pulled her away from me. I tried to reach her.
Insults , flying like knives, ire, red iron hot, venom boiling over and bubbling and popping and hissing. The young queen, scratching in a panic, crying, wailing, not understanding, and her little son, terrified, in pain, stubborn , running to her aid.Too quick he was snatched, lifted by the arm until his feet kicked at the air, bones creaking. The king’s teeth grated, almost chipping in his fury, his eyes fire, flaring, consuming.
It snapped.
A wretched scream.
He grabbed it. And pulled. And squeezed.
His little body tossed, hitting the ground, sobs filling the halls.
Here. It cracked here.
Thunderous, stomping steps stalking away, the drag of sandals unable to stop. Then, the quiet shuffling of feet, nervous muttering, servants fleeing into hallways and passageways and rooms, their duties before them like shields.All but one.Firm hands, work weary, yet gentle, brushing curls back. Trembling arms scooping the prince up and away.
An old servant woman. Her father had been a healer. And her father’s father, and his father before him. But her brother had no interest for it, so she had learned instead, mostly in secret.
Crying stopped by slow, patient shushing. His arm being painfully straightened, then his cheeks and face being cleaned by the hem of her skirts, wet with fountain water, green with herb paste. Her quiet voice, speaking of little white flowers, chamai, with its fruity smell and soothing taste and the bright blooms of marigolds. The careful dealings of nettles, the reverence towards humble goat’s weed.The prince listened intently, tears dried, arm wrapped, eyes wide.  There was nothing simple about Queen Philomela’s mind.It was something more akin to a labyrinth, thought her son, who would watch her lost in thought, her fingers drumming at her thigh, her thumb spinning her signet ring over and over.Rhythmically. Mathematically. Precise. He knew not what she thought, what she hid. She did not speak, barely looked at him, but she would hum softly when he took her hand, and smiled when he guided her around, and she laughed at his antics. She enjoyed watching the birds, the flowers he’d leave on her windows, the plink-plink-thunk of skipping stones. He thought she loved him, in her strange way, with how she took his face in her hands and cooed at him.
I certainly loved her.
She would hold his arm, as they stood beside’s his father’s throne.He would hold court and expect them to play their parts well.The prince stood rod straight and tense, shoulders held back. He’d practice for hours in an attempt to appear taller, regal, as he should be, and listened to his father and his advisers. They would speak, completely enthralled, of the farmer’s yield for the month, of the trades happening in their harbors, and of the coming and goings of travelers. Seldom would their eyes stray from the king, whose booming voice commanded their full attention.They’d claimed the queen sickly and so, most would leave her alone. Most. Though he could barely reach her despite her small frame, the prince did his best to guard her. From those who would look too long, judge, and from her own outbursts.One such outburst, a giggling babble, interrupted an old man, just on the cusp of his passionate speech about traders from afar and their wares.The prince felt his mother vibrate where she stood, suddenly aware of too many eyes falling on her. He feared for her, as a whine left her, a hysterical, ugly sound, like that of a spooked goat. Unbecoming , he knew.In his throne, Menoitius shifted. Clenched the arm of his seat.“Son,” he said, and the prince tried very hard not to tremble.
I was rarely ‘son.’
He swallowed, and tried to steady his voice over his mother’s mumbling, “yes, your majesty.”
He was never ‘father.’
He quickly pulled his mother away and out, fast as he could take her from the tall ceilings of the throne room, a glare hot and prickly on the back of his neck. She gave a loud squeak just before they crossed the door, and he could not help his flinch, his shoulders raising to meet his ears. No, he thought, and led her fast through the hallway, patting her hand. No, no, but she only hummed and skipped along his hurried pace, all the way to her quarters.Not an hour had passed, when her door flew open.The king stood at the threshold in quiet rage, his jaw tense, eyes smoking, almost red. He was a bull, wide and strong, a noble beast and he had been embarrassed. He had been embarrassed before his council, his generals and advisers, before the wealthy patrons and their crow-like eyes . By his useless, barren, simple wife, and his weak son.With a move that almost a dismissal, his sword went half out of his sheath. The prince felt fear course through him, wash him cold, as his eyes caught on the shine of the blade. For a moment, he imagined his mother being cut down, her head dropping from her narrow shoulders and rolling over the marble, a red trail left smeared by her long hair.Instead, the jeweled pummel of the king’s sword connected with her temple, and she crumpled as if she were nothing but air and a mess of colored silks and cottons.Like a child frightened by pain, first she remained quiet. Then, as warm, sticky blood began to drench her face, she wailed.Nothing more. Disgust in the king’s eyes, and he was gone.The prince did not think. He took her hands, and pulled and pulled, and made her follow to the gardens - panicked, frightened - heading the old servant’s words.Shaky hands, too small to grind herbs into paste properly, too new to be stable and sure, but caring to the very core. One held the queen’s jaw gently - so very gently. The other pressed flattened flowers and leaves to the wound. He hummed for her, until she sang along.
I-

I didn’t do too well. Mother scarred a lot.
Regret. Pain. Irreparable. White tendrils, like spiderwebs, forever marking her dark skin.
But she stopped crying.
He took to it, from that moment on.The prince would sneak into the gardens, into the nearby fields, and he’d gather herbs - flowers and leaves and sticks - always spilling from between the folds of his fine tunics. He would find that old servant-
I started calling her yiayia, and I don’t think she had the heart to stop me-
and pester her with nervous, whispered questions. About cuts and burns and bruises, about bandaging and splinting and stitching. And she would shush him, and point him away, only to find him later, in the evening, when most had left.More and more useful it became, as the king’s hatred became a thing of nightmares. As it evolved into an explosive thing, triggered by the quietest of sounds, the smallest mistakes, by the mere presence of his fool of a wife and disappointment of a son.
I taught her to hide away. Like it was a game.
Grabbing her hands and taking her to a quiet room with sickly, fake merriment in his step, talking soflty at her, soothing. The prince would cover his eyes and count, and he’d listen to her feet shuffling against the marble as she found a place duck behind.
I went barefoot everywhere, so I didn’t make noise.
Sneaking into empty rooms, silent as a whisper.
My knees were always bruised.
Stomping steps, heavy and sure, dull booms in their halls.
I would hear him coming and I’d dive under a table or behind a chair. Into the first empty room I saw.
The king, passing by, his impenetrable eyes and passive countenance giving little away.
Sometimes, I would end up trapped.
The doors slamming shut as the King and his advisers sat around the table, heavy chairs scrapping over the marble, the heavy sighs of busy men all around, their heavy bodies all but falling into their cushioned seats. And the prince, hidden underneath it all, a hand clapped over his mouth.“Menoitius,” a scratchy voice, familiar but unnamed, “the day is nearly upon us.”“It is,” his father, leaning back on his chair, his legs stretching, feet almost touching his son. “I expect all is in order.”“Yes.” Another man this time, older, less known. A leader from a cluster if villages, the prince remembered, who always spoke of trade amongst other kingdoms, held to unreachable high standards. “The men have been chosen, sworn to loyalty.”“And those who will dispose of them?”A laugh, ugly and sizzling. “Them as well.” A clicking of metal over the table, strangely cheery. “And after you are free from them, my lord-”“Ah yes,” his father again, a strange, venomous smile to his tone. “Songs will be sung of our noble cause, of course.”More laughter, a cacophony growing and blooming and clawing at the walls, the prince shrinking and curling below the table, eyes wide in the dark.“And triumphantly-”“Heroically!”“Legend’s will be told!”The king’s voice, louder and clearer than all.
“And Opus will rise above.”
   The prince of Opus awoke to pain.He was yanked into wakefulness and into the dark of a moonless night, to the chill outside his blankets, by a well-known hand, heavy and careless. Fingers bracketed by body-warmed gold which dug into the soft inside of his wrist. His feet found the cool, polished stone of the floor, but barely managed to find his steps as he was dragged out of his room.His father was there, gripping his arm, crushing the delicate bones of his wrist, dragging him through the unnaturally quiet hallways.There were no servants and no guards, though there usually would be, working from dusk to dawn. There wasn’t even wind, neither the whistle of it nor the rustling of leaves. Only the stomping steps of the king, and the unsure scuffing of the young prince.“Where-” he began to ask, the grip of sleep still muddling his mind -“your majesty-”It was not, by a long-shot, the hardest strike his father had bestowed upon him. Yet, in the stillness of the halls, the offending crack against his cheek bounced against the walls clear as a bell, and the fury in the kings eyes shone with such heat, the prince found himself frozen where he stood, not even shaking, free hand against his warming face.He knew then, that patience had truly left the man. He knew, because there had always been hate in his gaze, yes, but it had alway been accompanied by the stilling hand of resignation. That was nowhere to be found. He would not be held down any longer, by his idiot wife and runt of a son, he would not be shamed by remaining chained to them.The prince was pulled and dragged and yanked by a swinging arm and, though everything was too fast, he finally saw the reason for the silence around them.Blood, pooling under the cold bodies of the servants present that night, reaching like tendrils from the open rooms and towards the halls, accusingly towards the royals making their path away from them. Eyes, empty like a statue’s painted ages ago, already cracking, and mouths agape in frozen horror and pain.The prince did not scream - he could not find his voice - but his breath came fast and ragged at the sight of body after body carelessly left on the ground, twisted and crumpled.They made it outside and towards a path. There, shadows stood high, imposing and terrifying.Men, he saw, wearing dark leathers rather than the metal carapaces of soldiers. For silence. His mother stood there already, her nightgown translucent as it rustled in the wind around her shivering body, her eyes unfocused. Her head turned this way and that quickly, as a bird’s, and, when her eyes found her son, she smiled.
I think I rushed to her.
The king, cursing as his spawn ran towards his mother, grabbing at her arms, standing between her and the rest of them. Knowing fully by then that, between the tow of them, he had to do the protecting.
It was futile, of course.
They were pushed harshly, all the way down the road and into a farmer’s hay wagon, the only light that of a single torch held by the king himself.
We rode all night. Mother fell asleep, with her head resting over mine, but I watched the whole time.
Horses galloping beside their ride, the men furiously snapping at their reigns, the wooden wheels almost breaking under the strain.
No one met my eye.
A forest grew around them, a spindly thing, which thickened and flourished quickly, powerfully, around them, slowing their wagon, rattling and tossing the prince and queen like dice inside a cup, soon to be tossed harshly onto the ground, bounced into snake-eyes.Soon, they stopped. And they were grabbed and pulled. Horses were left to their wild breaths, soaking with sweat and dew. Through the bramble they all went, shoved and directed, breaking through the tree line, then pushed to their knees. Separated . A man’s hands roughly grabbing at his shoulders, the king yanking at his mother’s arm, twisting it, the glinting of his knife.Wailing!Screams, high and pained, as her finger, ring and all, fell to the leaves between them.“Mother!”
I screamed and I kicked and I pulled.
“Mother!”
But I was too small.

“Mama!”
King Menoitius grabbing his queen by the hair, pulling her up, knife still at hand.A quick slice. Nothing for half a second. Then a curtain of blood.
She fell to the ground.
Burning eyes flickering towards the prince, a terrible, toothy smile. The face of one seeking revenge, though no wrong had ever been committed.The man holding the prince stepping back, then that familiar, jeweled hand gripping his hair.
It didn’t hurt.
A blade, too sharp, slicing at his skin, blood dripping from the wound, sticky and warm, cascading down his front, soaking his dirtied clothes, hot and thick as mulled, honeyed wine.
I think I was too scared to feel anything at all.
The king’s hand tightening his grip, giving a final, rough pull.
If anything, I felt cold.
The prince fell. The pull on his hair had been released and, robbed of all strength, he tipped to the side and struck the ground hard.The King, now free, breathe harshly into the cool, night air.He laughed. At first a whisper, then a deep, loud thing, all the way from his belly, as he stood above his broken chains.Such was his glee, so great his confidence, that he did not deem it necessary to look over his work.The prince knew to keep still. To close his eyes and to breath shallowly, to feign death, like a wounded rabbit surrounded by hounds. He listened, ears sharper than ever, at the terrible gurgling escaping his mother’s lungs, her rattling breath caught at the back of her throat, her choked, wet sobs. He felt her hand find his and squeeze hard, blood gushing from the stump that had once been her finger. Then harder, desperate, trembling. Then slack all at once.It took everything for him not to sob.He heard feet shuffling around him, then away. Felt the looming presence of his father, heard him spit at their corpses, felt spittle hit his shoulder, before his fine sandals crunched away as well, and even then, the prince did not move. Not until the clopping of hooves grew faint.When he opened his eyes, they were filled with salt.They stung, and he knew not what to do.His mother laid dead beside him, her wide, dark eyes open forever, dull and unseeing, all void, no stars, no glittering depths of sea-bound treasure, no rhythmical sway to her gaze. Mama, he tried to call, but nothing came out. Blood rushed from his wound, and his hand came up to clap at it, in pure instinct, to hold it close. Mama, he scooted forward and went to press at her wound as well, but it was useless. Her heart did not beat, her chest did not expand.
Gone.
She was gone, and all he wanted was to roll to her and curl small and tight by her side. To hide his face into her hair and smell the earth and salt that remained there. To hold onto her arm and let go of breath and to just sleep. To grow cold together, the become dust and detritus. To seep into the earth and be lost to the moss and fallen leaves. To feed the animals and let their bones become cages for insects, a hidey-hole for wild rabbits, for mice.But he thought of her spirit, chained to the dark forest, unburried, unamed, with none of the honors she deserved, forever bound to a world too unjust and too uncaring.The prince cried at the injustice. And he prayed.Fervently, feverishly, he prayed, to live.
Just long enough to bury her.

I just wanted to bury her.

Then, I would have gone in peace, I think.
Warm tears, running one by one, down his nose, over his cheeks, dropping to the wet earth beneath.Cold. So cold. And then, a rustle of leaves. The wind traveling through the trees and bramble. Loud enough to force him into focus. To watch the grass and flowers sway around him, and there, there, he saw it.White, little flowers swaying gently in the breeze in perfectly shaped star-burst clusters, framed by long, curling, prickly leaves, like little ferns holding up their precious treasure.
Woundwort. Sanguinary. Thousand-leaves.
The voice of his yiayia echoed in his mind, patient and gravelly, the clear memory of her guiding hands cutting and crushing and packing wounds the crushed leaves.It took all his strength to sit. It hurt to stretch, to grab at the blooms and pull with all his might. He bit at it, at the longer leaves, yanked with his teeth, and chewed quickly. What was left, he bundled and pressed to his wound, mixed with the blood on his hand, and he pressed. All around he dragged himself, grabbed every bit he could find. Into his mouth it went, crushed by his teeth, then spit into his hand, pressed to his throat. Over and over, until the bitter after-taste was so strong he thought he would gag. Until the peppery scent seemed to burn so deep inside his nose he didn’t think it would ever leave him. And when there was none left, he made his way to his mother.He sat beside her, and watched to sky through the branches, hand squeezing at his throat.He watched the dark of night slowly lighten to dark blue, to a purplish hue, all the way to pink and orange. A light, open blue.He rocked himself.He cried.His hand fell. And he remained.   “Is it strange,” Patroclus asked him once his story was done, with his new, barely-there voice. They had moved, partway through, to the cave that was their bedroom. Achilles had arranged their furs as he listened intently, mostly to have something to do with his hands, and soon they had laid together, tangled as was usual. Patroclus’ head hid at the crook of his neck, and his breath puffed warm and humid against the prince’s skin. “That I am relieved now? That she wasn’t always quite there?”“Wasn’t it lonely?”“Yes,” the answer was quick, unashamed, “but sometimes she thought we were just play-hiding. And she would laugh and smile-” he sighed, and took a moment to clear his throat- “maybe she didn’t know. That we were worthless to him.”
Worthless.
Achilles wanted to growl at that, at the mere thought. But rage would do them no good, he thought. So he filled his chest with the crisp, night air and spent his energy in a kinder way. He brushed his fingers up and down his lover’s spine, and pulled him until he lay on top, until they slotted perfectly together. There was little resistance from Patroclus, who simply allowed himself to be moved and answered only by hiding farther into the prince’s neck.In the light of the moon, words bounced inside Achilles’ head. Painful. Sharp. Claws raking behind his eyes, a beast growling in the inside of his ear, demanding blood. He imagined Patroclus, as a little boy, having the light being beat out his round, dark eyes, wringing his hands as his father screamed at him, at his sweet, too-young mother, being cornered and curling as small as he could go at the sight of gemstones set upon a raised fist.He thought of him small and terrified and bloody, digging at the earth with his bare hands to make her a final resting place.Achilles wanted to scream at the heavens, to demand justice for his Patroclus, who was nothing but kind and just. Who was noble and compassionate despite all the horror. Who was the best of men.He swallowed it all back down, and breathed through his nose. Smelled the faraway rain in the air.Rage would do them no good, yes. But the the truth? The truth he could not keep to himself.“You are not worthless,” he whispered, smudged every word into dark, lovely curls. “You are not worthless.” He sighed, his arms went tighter around the warm, beloved body over him, around the well-known curve of his waist, the sharpness of his shoulder blades, the memorized steps of his ribs.“Patroclus,” Pa-tro-clus, “my love, you are worth everything.” He said no more.Not as hands gripped him, or as breathy sobs filled the cave, as shoulders shook in his hold.He could have said, he thought, how beautiful Patroclus was, all dark eyes and warm, brown skin. How he loved the smattering of freckles over his nose, dusting his shoulders, how they sprouted under the sun and dimmed in the silvery, winter light. How he smelled of spring, fresh herbs and new flowers, and tasted like sea salt and wild berries and plum, of story and song.He could have gone on and on about his smile. The sweet, gentle one, reserved for himself. The patient, expression he held as he weaved wounds closed and mended broken bones. The wicked turn of his lips, the wrinkling of his nose.He could have sung about the space between his thighs, the vee at the base of his throat, the path of his spine running down the valley of his shoulders. The path of coarse hair that began at his belly and traveled down, down, down, the mole on his inner thigh only he knew about. That one curl behind his ear that, through the years, still refused to lay down flat.He could have told him, in great detail, how he adored the way he thought, how he saw the world, how wonderfully beautiful life was through his eyes. How he thought he was funny, and smart. When he was serious, when he was playful. How he admired his memory, his light, healing hands, his calm breath, his quick eyes.How he wanted to chase him through the forest forever.Instead, he only held him close and said nothing of the tears soaking his neck, and kept him safe and warm through the night.