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There was no joy in this. The pride and pleasure Achilles normally felt on the battlefield was long gone, replaced with the agony that moved through him every second he remained in this world without Patroclus. It only felt like going through the motions now. His body moving on muscle memory alone. He no longer cared for honor or glory as he tore through the ranks of Trojan soldiers, striking them down one by one. All he cared about was finding Hector and ripping him to shreds. Besting Scamander had been easy. Gods were often forgetful of the fact that they too could be wounded, too confident in their own abilities that it made them underestimate everyone else's. Achilles had not even felt a sliver of satisfaction as he watched Scamander slink off into the water, streaked gold with his blood. He had hardly seen anything through the searing rage that blinded him. “HECTOR!” His voice shook like thunder, shaking the ground and sending the remaining Trojans quivering before him. He paid them no mind. He sought only one man now. He opened his mouth to scream again, to yell out Hector’s name, but his cry was drowned out by the deafening sound of hooves and chariot wheels quickly approaching. Achilles could feel the annoyance building in him, the first thing he had felt besides anger and grief since….He couldn’t bear to think of it again. He turned, ready to slaughter whomever it was who dared to stop his pursuit of the Trojan prince. He hoped it was Hector himself, the coward, coming to face him at last and let Achilles be done with it. It was not Hector. Automedon was gripping the reins of a pair of horses like a lifeline, shouting and pushing them faster than horses should be able to run. He caught up to Achilles quickly, though Achilles’ battle with the river god had slowed him considerably. “Achilles!” Automedon cried, between pants for air. He pulled the chariot in front of Achilles, blocking his path. Achilles' grip tightened on his sword. He felt more animal than man, wild and furious. His need for bloodshed so sharp that he could almost taste it. “Get out of my way,” he growled. “Or I will kill you myself.” Automedon visibly shrank. “Prince Achilles,” he said, voice trembling. “I-” “Well,” Achilles barked. “What is it? You are wasting my time. Do not think I will not-” “It’s Patroclus!” He realized then that he had interrupted his prince and his hands began to tremble as he tightened his hold on the horses’ reigns. He watched the shift of emotion pass over Achilles’ face. Anger, to fear, then back to anger. “What of him?” And though his voice was dripping with fury, Automedon could hear the underlying hint of distress within his words. “He speaks.” ****** Patroclus wakes up alone, or at least, that was what he had thought. It took him several moments to register the sound of someone softly crying, which was coming from somewhere around him. He tried to sit up, to see where the sound was coming from, but his whole body felt stiff and sore. His limbs as heavy as stones. There was golden light streaming through the fabric suspended above him. It fell over his face, white hot and blinding, piercing straight through his skull. Patroclus winced, trying to fight off the roll of pain and confusion that washed over him. He wasn't sure where he was, but he could feel that he was lying on something soft, a bed maybe. 'Do I live here?' He thinks, and then, 'Where is here?' He shifted uneasily, and the blankets that were pooling around his stomach crinkled with his movement. The crying stopped. Patroclus lay very still, suddenly afraid, though he is unsure why. “The gods are playing tricks on me.” It was a woman’s voice, small and thick with tears. “Oh, Patroclus,” She sobbed, though the words were muffled like she was speaking through something. Patroclus perked up. 'That’s me!' The thought came to him suddenly. 'I’m Patroclus.' He tried to sit up, to fight through the pain so he could find her, but it felt as if there was an invisible hand holding him down. He opened his mouth to say something to the woman instead, whoever she was, but his throat was raw from disuse and his words sounded more like a choked groan than anything else. Something shattered. “Oh gods,” came the voice again. “My wits have left me.” Patroclus was not sure what she was talking about. 'If only I could gather the strength to sit up and see her.' There was a hurried sound of what Patroclus thought to be footsteps and then suddenly, the large, dark brown eyes of a woman were looking down into his own. Black curls fell around her face, which was puffy and streaked with tears. She was very beautiful, though clearly grief-stricken. Patroclus wondered what it was that had made her so sad. He was on the verge of asking her, but before he could find the words, the woman was opening her mouth and releasing the most bone-chilling scream he had ever heard in his life. She stumbled away from the bed and out of Patroclus' line of sight. He heard the sound of her falling to the floor just as the sound of new footsteps approached. “What is it?! What’s happened?” A man’s voice this time, one still with an edge of youth to it. The woman was trying to say something, though her startled cries rendered her incoherent. Patroclus could only make out bits of it. 'Automedon' and 'Look!' “I don’t understand what you’re-” the woman must have gestured to Patroclus, for he heard the man run to his side. His expression was just as shocked and horrified as the woman’s. Patroclus smiled sheepishly. “Are you alright?” he asked, voice coming out much clearer than it had the first time. He was beginning to grow worried that something was wrong with him, for why else would he be receiving such reactions? The man looked as if he might faint. Patroclus hoped he wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure if he could roll out of the way, and he didn’t like the idea of being crushed by this stranger. Their cries must have attracted the attention of others because the sound of murmuring voices and hurried movement was steadily growing louder from outside the tent. The man was quick to intercept it, rushing from Patroclus' side. “Stay out!” he ordered. “Someone, fetch Machaon, quickly!” “Where are you going?” The woman asked. Patroclus could hear the fear and worry etched within her voice. “To fetch Achilles,” he said. “Stay with Patroclus. I’ll be back soon.” 'Achilles,' Patroclus thought. The name stored something in him. 'Who was Achilles? And why did the man need to fetch him?' His head was beginning to swim from all the commotion and the names he couldn’t quite seem to latch onto. The pain was getting worse behind his eyes, and he would have shut them, if it were not for the woman who had come to his side again. “Tell me you are real,” she pleaded, cupping his cheeks in her calloused palms and forcing his face to look at her. “That this is not a dream.” “You’re not dreaming,” Patroclus said, uncertainly. He was not sure if that was true. He still had not figured out where he was and it could very well be within a dream. His head did feel a little fuzzy. The woman let out a sound of pure joy and flung her arms around him, or as well as she could, considering he was still lying on his back. She clung to him, tears wetting Patroclus’ neck. It took him considerable effort to lift his arms and wrap them around her waist. This only seemed to make her sob harder. “I cannot believe it. You were dead, you-” she hiccuped, letting out a shaky breath. She pulled away from him, cupping his cheeks once more, beaming at him like nothing else in the world could bring her greater joy. Patroclus found it all a little unsettling. He wanted to ask about what she meant by ‘being dead,' however, he wasn’t certain that he should bring it up, lest she begin to cry again. “Let me help you,” she said. “Make you more comfortable.” She moved away from him and came back with arms full of cushions in a range of richly colored fabrics. She helped him to sit up, much stronger than she looked, and propped the cushions behind him. “There you are.” Patroclus could see all of his surroundings now. He was definitely lying on a bed. There was a table laden with numerous fine things in the corner. Piles of beautiful trinkets were sitting in chests resting on top of intricately woven carpets. There was cloth, jewels, finely crafted accessories, armor, and spears. 'Where am I?' “Patroclus?” He turned, the woman's voice pulling him from his thoughts. Her brow was lined with worry. He smiled at her, trying his best to mask the fear that was beginning to grow more prominent the longer he was awake. “You’re very kind,” he said and a smile returned to the woman’s face. He found that he rather liked her smile. It was comforting. He tried to think of some sort of conversation he could start, something to distract the both of them. “I feel at a disadvantage here,” he admitted. “You seem to already know my name but I do not know yours. I feel that’s hardly fair.” The smile slipped from the woman’s face as quickly as water slid from between one's fingers. But Patroclus didn’t have time to ask what he had said wrong, or try to amend whatever mistake he had made before someone was bursting in through the flap in the tent. A man stood at the tent's entrance. His hair was as bright as sunlight around his roots but grew damp and darkened with blood the further down it went. It clung unpleasantly to his neck and shoulders. He was drenched in it. Blood was splattered across his cheeks and finely shaped face, dripping onto the beautiful carpets under his feet. Something about him seemed almost familiar, and the sight of him tugged at Patroclus’ heartstrings, but he was sure he had never seen this man before. He stared at Patroclus, mouth agape, with a look that Patroclus could only describe as utter devotion. He was not sure he had ever been looked at in such a way in all his life. He was just as unsure of what he had done to deserve it. “Patroclus,” the man said, voice hardly above a whisper. And then, to Patroclus’ horror, the man advanced on him.
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All the woman’s work of propping Patroclus up was ruined when the bloodied stranger tackled him down onto the bed. He was heavy and smelled strongly of iron, and Patroclus was left desperately trying to catch his breath. “Patroclus,” he sobbed. The man who had just been standing so menacingly at the tent’s entrance was now reduced to a mess of tears. He clung to Patroclus like a child, pressing his lips under Patroclus’ chin and murmuring words into his skin. “I’m so sorry. It was all my fault. I never should of- I didn’t mean for- Oh, Patroclus.” He let out another heartbreaking wail, and though Patroclus was vaguely confused and very uncomfortable, he couldn’t help but pat the man’s head gently, overcome with the desire to soothe him somehow. Possibly only for the sake of getting him to cease his crying and get off him. He let the man lay there for a couple more minutes before the smell and the weight of him became too much, and Patroclus began to push at the man’s shoulders with a desperate need for escape. Achilles reluctantly rose off of him. He kept his eyes trained on Patroclus' face, searching for something. He must have been unable to find it because his frown was beginning to grow deeper and his brow more furrowed the longer he looked. “I’m sorry,” Patroclus said troubled. “But do I know you?” “That’s not funny,” the man said quickly, but it sounded more like a plea than anything near scolding. “You can not mean that.” He clutched at Patroclus' hands, clasping them and holding them to his chest, over his heart. “Patroclus, I know I did not act like myself, that I was cruel. I deserve your hatred, I know, but please do not pretend not to know me. I do not think I could bear it.” This man did seem a little cruel, he was soaked in blood after all, blood that Patroclus was now conscious of being all over his skin as well. Or had that been there before? He wasn’t sure. ‘Has this man done something to me?’ Patroclus was now more aware than ever of the gaps in his memory. He tried to remember the day before, where he was, how he had come to be here, but he couldn’t think of anything. Nor anything from the day before that. His mind felt entirely blank. His heart began to race, breath catching in his throat. “Get away from me.” The panic was beginning to rise in him again. His skin felt too tight on his bones and he was all too aware of the faces looking at him, faces he didn’t recognize. The man sprang back like he had been slapped. “What is this?” he asked, turning frantically to the other two people in the room with them. “Alright, move. Out of my way!” The tent flap was pushed aside once again and a much older man shuffled in. Several heads were peaking around the opening, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening inside, but they didn’t get to see much before the tent flap was thrown back in front of their faces. “Prince Achilles? What has happened? I thought that you were out – by the gods!” The old man rubbed at his eyes as if trying to banish the remnants of a sleep-deprived hallucination. He looked back at Patroclus, his eyes growing as wide as dinner plates. Patroclus had little time to linger on the fact that he had just had a prince kneeling for him before more men began to push their way into the tent, all dressed in extravagant fabrics. A dark-haired man with an equally dark beard, skin warmly tanned, with a pink scar wrapping around his calf. He was followed by a much larger, heavily muscled man. Then a man with hair as bright as a flame. Several others piled in after them and gathered behind the old man, stopping in their tracks when they caught sight of Patroclus. Patroclus was starting to feel like he was reliving the same moment over and over again after every new startled face. “Well,” said the first man, running his fingers through his dark beard. “And just when I had thought I’d seen it all.” They all turned to look at Achilles as if they expected him to provide some kind of answer to their unspoken question. He didn’t see them, still refusing to take his eyes from Patroclus. He was hovering just a few feet away from him but looked pained like even this small of a distance was too much. “Your mother is a goddess,” spoke the bright-haired man. ‘A goddess?’ Patroclus swallowed. He looked the man over again, the dark bruises of sleeplessness under his eyes and drooping hair did little to diminish his beauty. ‘That would explain it,’ Patroclus thought, then wondered how someone with divine blood flowing in their veins would seem so eager to be in his presence, or anywhere near him at all. ‘A prince, a warrior, and divine, who was this man?’h “Would she have-” “No,” Achilles cut in quickly. “She can do many things, but this is not one of them. She would not.” “Briseis found him,” said the young man from earlier, words soft and hesitant. Everyone looked at the woman, and she seemed to shrink back a little, clearly not used to such attention as this. Patroclus felt a wave of protectiveness overcome him and he watched the men as they watched her. “Dear Briseis,” the first man said, voice smooth as silk. “How was it that you came about our Patroclus?” Patroclus watched him warily. Something about this man made him feel unsettled but he did not know why. Instinct maybe? Intuition? “He just woke suddenly. I do not know how it happened.” “No one came to visit you before? It was just the two of you in this tent?” “Yes.” He hummed to himself, a low sound in the back of his throat. He gestured for the other men to follow him, and everyone gathered in the corner of the tent farthest from Patroclus. They began to whisper among themselves so Patroclus could not hear them, occasionally casting horrified and awed looks at him from over their shoulders. All except the woman with the dark curls who had not once left his bedside, as well as the bloodied man, Achilles. He was staring at Patroclus like he might cry, lower lip trembling. It bothered Patroclus that they were talking about him as if it wasn’t there, that everyone seemed to be ignoring him and refused to explain any part of what was going on. Irritation was bubbling up within him, threatening to spill over. It wasn’t until one of the men cast him a particularly entranced look that he finally lost it. “CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON!?” Every head in the room turned to him in unison, all shocked faces. Patroclus could feel the flush creeping up his neck, but gathered what courage he could muster, and pushed on. “I don’t know where I am,” he said. “I don’t know who any of you people are. I don’t even know how you all seem to know my name. I am tired. I am sore. And I just want to know what the fuck is going on. Is that too much to ask?” No one said anything, and Patroclus was beginning to regret speaking up at all when the man with a scar around his leg stepped forward. “Our apologies, Patroclus.” He said, and the whole room fell silent to listen to him speak, almost as if they were just as curious as Patroclus himself of what the man would say. “We didn’t mean to keep you in the dark. However, we seem to be as confused as you are at the moment, on account of you having been dead just this morning.”
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‘Dead?’ He didn’t feel like someone who had just been dead only hours ago, or maybe he did. He did not know what being dead felt like exactly. He hadn’t realized he had begun to spiral until he felt a soothing hand against his back. “Deep breaths.” He could feel his face growing warm with embarrassment with all the eyes pinned on him, watching him slip into panic. Somehow, the man called Achilles must have been able to read his mind, because he suddenly turned on the others in the room. “Enough of this,” he said. “Everyone out! You are not needed here.” He began to herd them all towards the tent's entrance. “Except Machaon,” he said suddenly. Machaon, the old man who had come in first, nodded his head briefly. “Of course, Prince Achilles,” he said lightly. The rest of the men shuffled out the door looking very displeased. “Briseis-” “I’m staying here,” the woman next to Patroclus said sharply, sitting up straighter and setting her shoulders. Her mouth was pulled in a taunt line and her gaze was firmly fixed on Achilles, as if challenging him to tell her otherwise. She was nowhere near a match for him, but Achilles must have thought better of it or simply did not care enough, for he sighed deeply and dropped the matter, turning swiftly back to Machaon. “Can you-” he stopped, looking between the two of them, suddenly unsure of what to say. Machaon nodded knowingly and took a seat on the bed next to Patroclus. “I’m just going to check for some less obvious injuries.”
‘Less Obvious?’
Machaon’s hands were warm and the lines of age were beginning to settle in along his skin. He felt around the back of Patroclus’ head. “I hadn’t checked you before because, well….It hadn’t appeared necessary given the circumstances.” He hummed, shifting through the curls against Patroclus’ scalp. “Nothing serious, no major cuts.” He prodded a tender spot on the back of his head and Patroclus winced, jerking away from Machaon’s fingers. “Bit of a bump here, you definitely hit your head. Could explain the poor memory.” He pulled away, settling back beside him. “He said he does not remember me,” Achilles said, rushed. His composure seemed to have dropped now that the other men were out of the tent. His fingers are buried in his hair, pulling at the strands. “I’m getting to that,” Machaon said. “You know your name, yes?” “Patroclus,” Patroclus answered easily. “Right. Do you know who I am?” Patroclus looked the man over, trying to see if he could pull anything to the surface of his mind, a spark of familiarity. He came up empty. He shook his head, forlorn. “Should I?” “That’s alright.” He was trying his best to be nonchalant, but Patroclus could see the cracks in his composure; the evidence of worry in his eyes, marked between his brow, within his smile. He gestured to Briseis. “And her? When did you meet?” “When I woke up, however long ago that was,” Patroclus said, confused. He made a point not to look at Achilles who was beginning to pace back and forth frantically. “Where were you born?” Machaon continued. That one should be easy, but when Patroclus thought about it, he was shocked to find that he came up blank. “I- I don’t know.” “What was your father’s name? Your mothers?” “I don’t know.” “How old are you?” Each question left Patroclus searching desperately for something, some sort of answer that should have come to him as simply as breathing, but he could not think of a thing. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.’ He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, his lungs burning from how fast he was pulling in air. ‘I have no memories.’ “Stop it!” Briseis cried. “Both of you! Can’t you see you’re frightening him?” Machaon pressed his lips together, thinning them. “There is no guarantee that all your memories are gone,” he said lightly, though he hardly sounded certain. “You do remember your name after all.” ‘Yes,’ Patroclus thought bitterly. ‘My name and nothing else.’ “It might not be forever. All we can do is give it time, but you’re very lucky to be here, I'll say.” He got up from the bed, his joints cracking from the effort. “I’m getting old,” he laughed to himself. “But every second is a blessing.” He turned back to Patroclus “Now get some rest young man, it will do you well. Prince Achilles, might I have a word with you?” Reluctantly, Achilles turned and followed Machaon out of the tent. “Lie back,” Briseis said, placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him back against the cushions. She seemed to relax a bit now that the tent was empty of all but the two of them. Her hand was warm on his bare skin. She had procured a damp cloth from somewhere and used it to remove the specks of blood that had been left on his skin by Achilles. He hadn’t noticed before that he was not properly clothed, too preoccupied with the shock of waking up somewhere so unknown. He moved her hand aside and reached down to better pull up the blanket already covering part of him, not sure if it was proper for him to be so bare in front of this strange woman. That was when he noticed the scar. A long, thin line raised off his skin, splitting his abdomen in two. Briseis caught him looking and quickly snatched the blanket to cover him. “Lie back,” she said again, much firmer this time. “What happened?” The mark did not hurt him, he hadn't even felt it was there, but its presence was still enough to trouble him. “You’ve had enough excitement for today, do not let it trouble you. You’re alright now. I’ll make sure of it.” “But-” “Tomorrow. For now, you need to rest.” She moved from the bed and began to rummage through one of the chests in the far corner of the tent, pulling out a bundle of cloth. She brought it over and changed out the blankets that Achilles had soiled with it. “I’m not tired.” She ignored him in favor of rearranging the bedding. He really wasn’t tired. He felt like he had just woken up from the longest sleep of his life and was anything but eager to fall back into slumber again. ‘What if I fall asleep and then wake up without remembering any of this?’ He must have said that out loud because Briseis answered quickly, “That won’t happen, but if it did, I’d tell it all to you again, don’t you worry.” An overwhelming feeling of fondness suddenly overcame him. “Thank you,” he said. He couldn’t remember someone caring for him so thoroughly. He was unsure if that was because he could not remember much of anything, or if he had never before had such a tender exchange. “How do you know me?” he asked, finally settling back into the cushions. They were almost too soft to be real, cradling his body the way waves held a ship. “You’re my closest friend,” she said simply, running her fingers through his hair. “And I am so glad to have you well, so you must rest, for me.” “Alright,” Patroclus caved. “I will try.” Achilles comes back into the tent alone, the cloth over the entrance parting for him dramatically. He stood frozen for several seconds as if debating what he should do. “Is this your dwelling?” Patroclus asked abruptly. He was sure it must be, for who else would have such fine things gathered in his living quarters. Achilles hesitated, his face crestfallen. “Our dwelling,” he corrected. “You’ve lived here for years.” “With you?” This shocked him. He could not see himself residing in such close proximity with such a man, certainly not for years. “Yes,” Achilles said, gritting his teeth. “You’ve lived with me long before Troy since we were both boys. Are you telling me you do not remember?” 'Troy? Was that what this place was called, wherever he was?' “I do not.” Achilles only stared. Briseis’s gaze shifted nervously between the two of them. “Are we close?” Patroclus wondered aloud. “We must be if we have known each other for so long. I am sorry that I do not remember you.” He really was sorry. Achilles was both terrifying and unworldly beautiful, but there must be something buried deep underneath his intimidating exterior that cared for Patroclus if only a little. Why else would he have kept him around for so long? It was a strange thought, that everyone knew of a life that Patroclus didn’t, a different version of him. Achilles let out a sound like a wounded animal, a cry of grief and frustration, and stormed from the tent. “Where are you going? Briseis called after him. “To speak with my mother!” And then he was gone. “He frightens me a little,” Patroclus said, staring at the empty space where Achilles had just been. “In that, we are in agreement.” He turned to face her, shifting his body on the pallet for a better angle. “Will he be okay?” he asked, looking up at her face. “He looked troubled.” “Oh, Patroclus.” Briseis sighed heavily. “I fear every version of you is doomed to think too much of others.”
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It didn’t take Achilles long to find his mother. She practically came to him. “Achilles.” Her voice was a harsh sound against the soft murmur of the waves, like the sharp edges of sea cliffs. The beaches were empty, the fighting momentarily at a cease now that Achilles had suddenly vanished again. The Trojans and their allies had moved back inside the walls, eager to have a few moments to assess the damages that had befallen them in such a short time. “Did you know of this?” He had long since stopped greeting her. She rarely needed an introduction. Some days the fear he had as a child would resurface, that she could see every thought in his mind. “I’d heard rumor.” “Just rumor? So it really wasn’t your doing?” Thetis scoffed. “No, I do not possess such power, and if I had it, I wouldn’t be using it on the likes of him. Not when he’s finally been done away with.” Achilles’ grip on the hem of his tunic was so tight in was in danger of tearing. “No,” she said. “If I had such power you’d needn’t prolong Hector’s end.” Achilles clenched his jaw so hard he heard it pop. “Then who,” he spit through gritted teeth, “Do I blame for stealing his memory?” “I thought you would be happy,” Thetis said, lips pursed. “Though maybe it is my fault for never teaching you gratitude.” Achilles dug his heels into the sand, resisting the urge to throw himself down on the beach and scream. Thetis ignored him, used to his dramatics. “It appears someone talked to Hades, though who, I’m not quite sure. Aphrodite, Ares, Apollo, even. There was talk. The gods on Troy’s side are not quite ready for its walls to crumble. They think that maybe if you are distracted …..appeased, you might cease your rampage and allow Troy enough time to repair the damage you managed to inflict. Or maybe they don’t want Hector dead quite yet.” “If they were meaning to appease me, then why didn’t they return Patroclus to me in full!” he demanded. Thetis looked down at her son from where he was standing on the beach, arms crossed and huffing like a spoiled child. ‘Oh, where did I go wrong with you?’ She thought. “Just because they are trying to appease you, does not mean that they are happy with you.” She laughed, a raspy sound like she was choking on water. “You have angered many gods, Achilles. You would be a fool to think they would let you go unpunished. Him being changed might be the point.” Achilles let out a roar, kicking up sand. “What do I do? How do I fix it?” “You don’t,” Thetis said, roughly. “You live with it or wait for him to die again. Which won’t be long, mortals are like that, and he’s as good as a child now.” Achilles stood up straighter, moving up to his full height. “How dare you!” he cried. “Do you forget that I am mortal as well, that I would sooner die than let anything happen to him, memories or not?” “Yes,” Thetis hissed, rising up from the water like a towering wave, casting a long shadow along the beach and over her son. “You forget how aware of that fact I am. I know all about what you would or would not do for that man. Even when he is a hollowed-out shell he still takes priority over me.” Her voice was steadily rising with each word, the water around her feet churning as it would before a storm. “I. Am. Aware. But he will never love you, not when he is to only know you as this. You forget how easily frightened humans are.” “You’re no help.” No one else would have caught the tremor in his voice, the fear that lingered there. But she knew. “You just refuse to believe the things you do not want to hear.” She slipped back into the water, the waves devouring more and more of her until she could only be seen from the shoulders up, her dark hair floating around her like clumps of seaweed. “Goodbye Achilles.” He did not watch her leave, instead curling up on the sand and heaving out a sob that shook the whole of him. Patroclus would love him again, he had to. He could not imagine a world where he was not on the receiving end of Patroclus’ boundless affection, it seemed almost unbearable. It hurt him even now, to have the only person he truly cared for and wished to never let go of, look at him impassively, want to be free from his grasp. He would do better, spend every second he had reminding Patroclus of the life that they had had together, rekindling the flame of love he had once had for Achilles. His mother was wrong, Patroclus would love him again. He would remember, he had to. Achilles would make sure of it. ****** Achilles' plans were quickly pushed off course when he was met with Briseis at the front of the tent, barring his way. “This is my tent!” he shouted. “He is resting. He doesn’t need you smothering him and pressing him with questions.” Her hair was tied up out of her face and there was sweat beading on her brow like she had been working. “He is my companion, my philtatos, and this is my home! You should be the one to leave!” “He needs someone to care for him,” she countered. Placing her hands firmly on her hips. Achilles towered above her small frame, the picture of intimidation, but she did not back down. She no longer cowered like she had before. Achilles had a mind to shove her out of the way or toss her into the sea. He could do it. But he had promised himself he would start on the right foot with Patroclus, and Patroclus had liked her once, even if he didn’t remember her now. So for his sake, he’d leave her be. He shoved her aside, gently. She wasn’t much of an obstacle and he made his way around her easily. “I can care for him on my own, I did it for years, long before he even knew of your existence.” “Yes, and you did such a great job the last time.” Achilles whipped around, stalking towards her where she was still standing in front of the tent’s entrance. “Don’t-” “I say nothing that isn’t true. For as long as I have known you, you have put your own needs above his. He needs rest far more than you need his attention.” “You say that because you are with him now! You know nothing about us, he would want me near him, you cannot deprive me after- you have no right-” he stumbled over his own words, a thing he did not often do, but the frustration that was building inside him gave him little room for thinking. “Fine,” Briseis spat out, “go to him. But do not think for a second that I will let you harm him.” “You threaten me? And with such a foolish insult? I have learned my lesson, I need not learn it again. No harm will come to him, that is certain.” He pointed a slender finger at her, scowling. “I do not need you to make sure of that.” He turned his back on her and went into the tent. He had picked her off the dais for the sake of Patroclus, not so he could have a second mother. “That was rather quick for– Oh. It’s you.” Patroclus was sitting upright, drowning in a heap of cushions and blankets. He was swaddled like a small child. It was almost comical. ‘ This must have been Briseis’ doing,’ he thought, rolling his eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was just him imagining things, but Patroclus almost sounded disappointed. It pulled at his insides a little, to see Patroclus looking so unbothered by the sight of him, when before he would have been running up to greet him. “Patroclus,” he said softly. “Um, yes?” Patroclus said, hesitantly, raising his eyebrows in question. Achilles could look at his face all day. Once again he was filled with an overwhelming sense of longing. His hands itched to reach for him, run his fingers over his skin, and mark every place he could feel a pulse. But the way Patroclus had acted last time had Achilles staying put. “I-,” he let out a long sigh. ‘Normalcy,’ he told himself. ‘Do not frighten him. You must build his trust again.’ “Are you alright?” “Oh,” Patroclus said, as though he had not expected the question. “Yes, I am alright. Though I would prefer it if I didn’t have to lie here all day. Briseis insists, but I really am fine, just a bit confused. But it seems that I am not the only one.” Achilles said nothing, he felt as though he had lost all words. Patroclus patted the blankets next to him. “Sit.” He was looking up at Achilles expectantly, his features soft. Achilles scrambled over to him. He would not refuse him anything ever again. It took more strength than he had to not let himself fall against Patroclus as soon as he was near. “You look tired,” he said, smoothing his thumb over one of the dark circles under Achilles' eyes. “I think you need this bed more than I do.” His touch was brief but Achilles leaned into it while it was there. He was unable to suppress the dissatisfied huff of breath that left him when Patroclus slowly pulled his hand back. Achilles' resolve crumbled, and he caught Patroclus’ hand swiftly, just to feel his skin. He presses his thumb over his pulse which beats just below his palm, quick and steady. It's Achilles' favorite rhythm. There is no music that is sweeter, no song. His skin, though flushed with life, was still slightly chilled. Patroclus looked at him, startled. “I am not tired.” He was afraid to shut his eyes for even a moment, lest this all be a dream and Patroclus was swept from him again. Blinking felt almost unbearable. “Well,” Patroclus mumbled, his cheeks slightly flushed. “Then the least you could do is keep me company if I am doomed to sit here all day.” He moved over so that there was more space beside him, lifting the edge of a blanket for Achilles. It took no convincing for Achilles to lie down next to him. He wasn’t as close as he would have liked but it was better than nothing. Achilles was still slightly damp from bathing in the sea but Patroclus says nothing of it. He only stares off at the ceiling, still propped up on his mountain of cushions, deep in thought. Achilles wants to ask him what he is thinking. He has so many things he wants to say to Patrolcus. But it has been hours since he has last slept. The bed is soft and the sound of Patroclus' even breathing from above him is the most comforting sound in the world. Achilles is drifting off before he can stop himself.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The bed was empty when Achilles woke. The pallet had long gone cold as if the spot beside him had been abandoned for a while. Achilles shot up, panic flooding through him. The tent was empty as well, and he could feel a soft breeze coming in through the tent flap that was hanging loose at the entrance, giving him a clear view of the night sky and the camp beyond. He hurried out of bed. The sluggishness that often comes in the midst of wakefulness does not touch him. He moves quickly from the tent, searching frantically in every direction for any sign of….. “Patroclus!” Patroclus is sitting only a little ways off from the tent, in front of a fire that is burning low, an empty cooking pot still settled above it. He turns his head sharply at the sound of his name. He sees Achilles and waves to him. The gesture seems friendly, but Achilles can see that his shoulders are tense, wary. His face is cast in shadow, the light of the fire too weak to reach it. “You slept for a while,” he says, voice a soothing balm over Achilles’ ears. “You must have needed it.” Achilles shuffled awkwardly near the flames, close enough to be in reach of its light but not its warmth. Patroclus ushers him over to sit next to him. The familiarity of the motion leaves an ache in Achilles' chest. They sat in silence, the sounds of the night filling the air around them. The waves breaking against the shore in the distance, the humming and buzzing of the night’s insects. Patroclus has one of the hounds nestled at his feet. It must have sought Patroclus out, hoping for some scraps. There were too many dogs in the camp for Achilles to keep up with them all. He squints at it. It looked almost familiar but its name does not come to mind. Achilles does not feel too bad about it. Patroclus probably didn’t remember its name either. “I did not realize how vast this place was,” Patroclus said suddenly, looking out to the rest of the camp that stretched before them. Achilles makes a sound in acknowledgment, his eyes still trained on Patroclus who seemed to not even notice him. The breeze blowing past them ruffles Patroclus’ hair, shifting through his loose curls that the fire’s light had made luminous. Achilles aches. “How many people are settled here?” He asked, and Achilles had to gather himself before he could speak. “Too many to count,” he answered. The camp had changed considerably over the years, with new deaths and new lives continuously shifting and changing their population. He had never cared to pay attention, the faces of the men all fusing together for him. He was no longer sure of the number of his own soldiers. 'Patroclus would know,' he thought. He looked at him imploringly, begging him to remember something. 'You were always the one who was good at these sorts of things.' “Why are you all here?” Patroclus asked. “Surly this is not so grand of a place for people to permanently settle. You seem wealthy enough that you could have a more stable home, something of stone even.” “We’re at war,” Achilles says simply. It is odd to have to explain this to Patroclus. "Have been for nearly a decade." There is a spark of recognition in Patroclus’ eyes, but it fades as quickly as it appears. It leaves Achilles uncertain of if he had only imagined it. If it was just a shift of the flames reflecting in his eyes. “I had thought that you might have been a soldier," Patroclus muses. “You have that look about you.” “Do I?” Achilles asked. Of course, he knew he looked like a warrior, frightening enough to send any man running. He had seen the effects he had on people over the many years he had been on the beaches of Anatolia. He wondered how he looked from Patroclus’ eyes. If now he only saw a soldier when he looked at him, a terrible, monstrous thing. Maybe that was all he had ever seen, and now that he didn’t hold any affection for Achilles he felt able to say it. Now that he was no longer biased by past memories. “Yes,” Said Patroclus, jabbing a stick into the fire and shifting the wood. Several sparks were knocked free and flew up into the wind like fireflies. “You looked terrifying covered in blood. I’m sure you frighten many.” Achilles caught his wrist and Patroclus dropped the stick, a startled breath slipping from him. His eyes were dark and shadowed when they looked into Achilles’ own, so achingly familiar and yet missing something. “And are you?” Achilles asked. Their faces were closer now, just a breath apart. “Hmm?” “Frighten of me? Are you?” “Should I be?” 'Yes.' Achilles thought. 'You should be. I have ruined you and I am bound to ruin you again.' But his throat had closed up and he could not speak. “Am I a solider as well?” Patroclus asked, changing topics when Achilles continued to give him no answer. “Yes,” he uttered, voice as dry as sand.“Though you did not favor it.” “Would you be a danger to me then? One solider to another. Was I enough of a threat to strike down?” It was too much for Achilles to bear. 'I have. It was not by my hand but It was me all the same. I did not stop you.' Achilles said nothing, the crackling of the flames filling the empty space between them. He let go of Patroclus, clamping his eyes shut and moving back to lounge against the ground, to block his face from view. He would not let Patroclus see him cry. “Briseis said I loved you. That I followed you here even though I was not fit for a place like this.” Achilles could feel the tears building, threatening to spill over like an overflowing chalice in a drunkard's hand. 'Loved.' It was like an arrow straight through his heart. 'Could you ever love me again?' He wants to ask. 'Could you remember how?' He stays silent. “It is strange that I have a whole life that I do not remember, but everyone around me knows every piece of,” Patroclus continues, none the wiser to Achilles breaking apart beside him. “How do I even know that I am being told the truth?” “I would not lie to you,” Achilles says suddenly, sitting up so he can look at Patroclus. He keeps himself out of the firelight so Patroclus cannot really see his face, how earnest he looks, or the tears wetting Achilles' cheeks. Patroclus stares at him for a moment before speaking. His eyes are moving over Achilles as if he too is in search of something. “It is stranger yet to think I have built a whole life around you,” he whispers. “I don't even know you, but then you speak to me in such a way, look at me like you are now, and I begin to think…." He trails off, the words getting lost before they can reach his tongue. "Oh, never mind. I've forgotten where I was going.” Achilles' heart sinks. Patroclus goes back to poking at the fire, unconcerned at having lost whatever he was about to say. “I hope I did not ruin your night, My lack of memories seem to pain you as much as they pain me.” “You’ve ruined nothing.” Patroclus smiles softly at him, and Achilles is reminded of every instance where he was on the receiving end of such a look, and it cracks through his grief a little. 'He is here, and he is looking at me fondly, and if I can have nothing else in this world, I will be satisfied with just this.' His thoughts do little for reassurance. Patroclus’ mouth stretches open in a yawn. He rubs his eyes. “I think I will head to bed if that’s alright?” He waits, uncertain, looking at Achilles for an answer, perhaps permission. Achilles nods, wishing Patroclus wasn’t so stiff with him. Closed off. It almost reminds him of when they first met, but then he has to stop thinking about it because it hurts too much. “Of course.” Patroclus gets to his feet, turning to look down at Achilles one last time. There are stars scattered above his head. “Good night, Achilles,” He says, and Achilles wants to reach up and pull him down with him, beg to be allowed to follow him, instead he only says: “Good night, Patroclus.” Patroclus turns his back on him and disappears into the tent. Achilles throws himself down on the ground, staring up at the vastness of the sky above him. He feels hollowed out, like someone has scraped out his insides and sent them off with Patroclus, leaving him with nothing. He is left wondering if Patroclus would have been better off without him. He should have listened when he was told he was good for nothing but destruction. As much as it pained him to admit it, maybe Briseis was right. What had he done for Patroclus in the last several years that had not caused him misery? He had not worked at all to stop himself from becoming the monster that Patroclus feared he would become. A killer. Patroclus deserved more, and Achilles would be damned if this time around he did not give it to him. He had a second chance and he would prove himself to be better. He'd fix all the past failures with Patroclus, build on this now clean slate. If the only thing tying them together was a past that they no longer had, it would be all the easier to lose him again. Patroclus had not fallen in love with Achilles as this. He stays, spread out on the ground, running these thoughts through his mind until the fire goes out and dawn bleeds up through the sky.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Achilles had expected to be called to a meeting eventually. He had just hoped he would have more time to talk himself out of murdering every king on this damned stretch of beach before then. “Achilles,” Odysseus says smoothly as Achilles pushes his way into the tent. “It’s lovely of you to join us.” The seats around the table are already full of men, all staring at Achilles with mixed expressions of worry and terror like they’re waiting for him to snap. He holds back a grin. They should be worried. Achilles’ eyes roam the table as he takes his seat, stopping once they fall on Agamemnon who is seated at the head. They lock eyes and Agamemnon swallows thickly, his gaze darting off to somewhere over Achilles’ shoulder. It takes all of Achilles' willpower to keep himself in his seat. “It must be an important matter,” he says cooly, “if you are all gathered here.” “Yes,” Odysseus says. “We wouldn’t have called on you for anything trivial.” Achilles decides then that he’s killing him as soon as he’s finished off Agamemnon. “It is truly a miracle,” Menelaus interrupts. “What has happened with Patroclus. I am glad to hear of it.” “Yes truly.” Diomedes agrees. Achilles waits for them to elaborate, to get to the real reason he had been summoned. “Though we can’t help but wonder if this will change your stance on the war,” Diomedes Continues. ‘Ah, there it is.’ “You’ve joined the fight again, though late, and have saved us from near ruin,” Odysseus adds. An insult stuck between bits of praise. If it had been any other day, Achilles might have snapped back with some snide comment for it, stormed off in a huff, but the urge doesn’t come to him now. He has found that he no longer cares what these men think of him. He has other things on his mind. Odysseus’ hidden insults do little to him now. “What are you asking exactly?” “We want to know If you’re going to stay in the fight, or if you’ve had a change of heart due to,” Odysseus Pauses, “recent circumstances.” “You have no reason not to continue to fight,” Agamemnon says suddenly. “I can assure you that your honor will be restored. You have performed great deeds already with Scamander.” All eyes fall on him. “I know we had some….disagreements in the past,” each word is spoken through clenched teeth as if the words have to force themselves from his mouth. Agamemnon puts on a tight smile, far from genuine. “But it would be best for all of us, the whole of Hellas, if we put these things behind us and came together again as comrades against our true enemy, Troy, not one another.” It’s not an apology, nothing near one. The Achilles from a few days before would have spit at him for it, bared his teeth, raised his hand. Now, all he can do is sigh. He doesn’t think of Agamemnon or his hatred for these men. He thinks of Patroclus, his dark lashes clumped with tears. His face as he begged Achilles to join the fight, the look he gave him when Achilles refused. He shuts his eyes and draws in a breath so deep it makes his chest tighten. He does not think of the men at the table when he opens his mouth to speak. He does not even think of himself. He thinks only of Patroclus and how he can do right by him, how he should have long before now. “I will stay in the fight,” he says. “I will help you see Troy to its ruin.” ****** Achilles had not been lying when he had said they were at war. It was the first time Patroclus had left the tent in daylight, and he could see the signs of it everywhere. The weapons, the chariots left next to tents. The men who limped around the camp, nursing wounds or cradling bandaged limbs. The thick smell of day-old blood and sweat seemed to cling to the air, more prevalent under the heat of the sun. It was sickening. The camp was full of mourners. Faces shadowed in grief, eyes wet with tears. Patroclus hadn’t expected things to be so still. He had thought war was a quick and violent thing. Loud and messy. No one was wearing any armor or carrying any weapons as they moved through the city of tents. They seemed to only carry sorrow. But maybe he shouldn’t trust his own judgment. He wasn’t sure what he did or didn’t know anymore. Everything in his head felt wrong. Many people had stopped in their tracks when they had caught sight of him. The same looks came to all of their faces, confusion, awe, fearful glances. It was as if everyone Patroclus came across had been struck with some kind of paranoia. Some had tried to make their way toward him to speak, but Patroclus had been quick to duck away. Others made signs to ward off evil when they caught sight of him, fleeing from him. For some reason, those reactions felt oddly familiar. He did not know these people the way they knew him. He did not have the strength to face so many strangers. All of these new and unfamiliar sights were making his head spin. Why he had thought it was a good idea to venture from the tent he was not sure. It had just felt too odd to stay put like his body wanted to follow some routine he no longer remembered. Now he was just lost. Thankfully Achilles had not come back to the tent last night and he had disappeared altogether by the time Patroclus had gathered up the courage to breach the tent's flap and venture out into the light of day. Bresises had still been asleep or he would have asked her for company on his walk. Patroclus hides himself behind a barrel now, trying to keep out of the line of sight of those milling about the camp. He was not ready for this. To face a strange place with no means of navigation. He was not ready for all of the open-mouthed stares and reaching hands. He couldn’t stay out here, but he did not want to go back to the tent either even if Achilles wasn't there to hover near him and gaze at him in the way he does. The looks he was giving Patroclus last night have been running through his mind. They felt a little too close to worship. Like he’s all of Achilles' greatest desires and worst fears come to life. It was borderline suffocating. He knows he cannot hide wedged between these barrels forever. It certainly would start to feel uncomfortable very soon. Yet every other option seemed equally horrible. He can feel the breeze coming up from the sea, its strong, salty smell and cool touch. He shut his eyes to it, letting it run through his curls and over his skin. “This is painfully familiar.” When he opens his eyes, Achilles is standing over him. His golden hair hangs loosely around his shoulders, shifting around his face with each exhale of wind. He is both beautiful and terrifying all at once and Patroclus swears he feels his stomach drop. “I’ve been looking for you.” He continues. “Have you?” Patroclus asks and cringes at the slight uneasiness prevalent in his voice. He's still not sure how he should feel about the man. Everything about him makes Patrolcus want to flee but some pull within himself keeps him from doing so. Bresis words from the night before have stuck with him. She had come into the tent to find Achilles asleep next to Patrolcus, shocked to see him at rest. "He has not done that in a while. I thought him on the edge of madness, though it seems you have pulled him back. He loves you."
Patrolcus had frozen. "Loves me?"
"
Yes, and you loved him back for some foolish reason."
Maybe whatever had once been between them is what keeps him still under Achilles' gaze. That does not let him fear Achilles in a way he probably should. Hesitation crossed over Achilles' face, though brief, but eventually, he extends his hand out to Patroclus. “Walk with me?” And as much as Patroclus is opposed, there’s something deep within him that can’t seem to tell Achilles no. Patroclus takes his hand. “Where are we going?” “Anywhere you’d like.” They start walking in a direction that is empty of people. “I don’t remember what places I like.” Achilles winces and Patroclus regrets saying anything, but then Achilles is smoothing it all over before Patrcolcus can get a chance to apologize. “Then I’ll give you a tour.” It feels strange to Patroclus to call this place ‘their camp,’ but that’s what Achilles calls it, and whether he remembers it or not, he does live here, has lived here for a decade. He tries not to let the news knock him off his feet. Their camp is at the very edge of the Achaean settlement, closest to the woods. Achilles takes him around this first and to the places he has not yet stumbled across himself. He shows him the women’s tents, where Patroclus had supposedly spent many days. Bresis had lived here before she had become a permanent attachment to Patroclus’ side. Achilles' voice is bitter as he says so. “Do you not like Bresis?” He asks, voice light, though his gaze is piercing as he looks Achilles over. “I like her well enough.” “Well enough?” Patroclus echos. “Yes, she reminds me of you sometimes.” Achilles’ says, voice turned soft. Patroclus raises an eyebrow. “Really?” Achilles laughs faintly. “You’re both horribly stubborn. Neither of you ever back down or know how to leave well enough alone.” “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you sound almost fond. Are you sure you don’t like a bit of stubbornness?” Patroclus asks, teasing. He's not sure where such boldness has come from. They lock eyes. Achilles' gaze is piercing, earnest. “I like everything about you.” They’re supposed to be sweet words, he knows this, but they make his stomach sink all the same. He does not feel like the same person everyone seems to have once known. He can’t help but wonder if he has been cast into a shadow that he will never remember how to fill, that now all he can do is bring about disappointment. He wonders If Achilles’ statement still stands now that he feels like such a different person. Now that his own feelings for the man are so uncertain. He tries to focus on his surroundings and listen to Achilles' voice as he points things out to him. He does his best to remember everything he is told, saying the names back to himself in his mind. It is when they get to the center of the camp that the feeling of nostalgia crashes into Patroclus like a wave. He stops in his tracks. Achilles immediately notices and comes to an abrupt stop next to him. “Are you alright?” “I know this place.” He stares at the white tent that sits all but deserted. The heavy smell of herbs that clings to the air around it burns his nose. It just barely masks the smell of blood. “Do you?” “Yes. it feels…familiar.” “It’s the medical tent,” Achilles says. Patroclus takes a deep breath, gathering his strength to ask the next question. “Did I-” He takes another breath. Achilles watches, patient. “Did I die there?” The air around them grows somber. “No,” Achilles shakes his head. “You died on the battlefield, then you were brought to me.” “Then why-” “You worked there as a medic, every day for hours. You’re a skilled healer. Earned quite the reputation for yourself in the camp.” The statement puzzles Patroclus. It is strange to think of himself as skilled at anything. Patroclus thinks of the scar that splits his abdomen. He resists the urge to raise his hands to his stomach to feel it. He’s been doing it since he found it, running his fingers over the jagged line that raises from his skin like a sort of nervous tic. “If I was dead, as everyone is saying, how was it that I died?” Achilles turns his head from him. “I don’t want to talk about this.” “I do,” Patroclus says firmly. How can he be expected to remember these things if no one will talk to him about them? “Was it painful?” His voice is neutral, bored even, when he asks this as if he is inquiring about the weather instead of details on his own murder. “Stop it.” “Was it a soldier's death in battle? You did say I was a soldier.” He’s not sure why he pushes. “Patroclus.” Achilles' eyes are wet. Patroclus closes his mouth. “I was not there to see it,” Achilles says finally. “If I had been there it would not have happened. You would still be- Nevermind.” Patroclus finishes for him. ‘The same as I remembered. Whole.’ They fall silent, standing side by side and watching the camp fill with life. Several people stop to stare but no one dares approach them. “A stab wound,” Achilles says out of nowhere. Patroclus had thought they were done with the subject. “From a very skilled soldier. You’re as brave as you are stupid.” His voice trembles as he speaks. Patroclus pretends not to notice. “Thank you, for telling me.” “Do not thank me, please. I owe you so much that I have still not given you.” He turns his back on the tent. “Let us leave this place, and speak no more of it.” “Wait,” he says, and Achilles does. “Can I go inside, for a moment?” he gestures at the medical tent. “It's just that this is the first place that I’ve felt anything close to remembrance. I thought maybe if I went inside, looked around, it might spark something.” “Of course.” “Will you come with me?” “I’ll follow you anywhere. You do not have to ask, never again.” Patroclus swears that there is a hint of guilt lingering in Achilles’ expression but he does not dwell on it. Achilles takes his hand, his hold is loose, allowing for Patroclus to pull away if he chooses. Patroclus doesn't. Achilles leads him to the tent.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Machaon moved about the tent with a kind of tranquility that seemed foreign to a war camp, and in a place of healing no less. The place was nearly deserted. Only a few people remained resting in corners or on benches, dipping their calloused fingers into jars of salve to smooth over their scrapes and sores. Some were busy choking down cups of foul-smelling liquids. They all looked up at the sound of an approaching pair of footsteps. All of them stared when they saw it was Achilles and Patroclus. Patroclus could feel the flush spreading across his cheeks from their attention. “With you in a moment,” Machaon said as if he could sense the newcomers. His back was still turned to the both of them. He moved around his workbench, collecting ingredients that he then began to grind into a fine powder within one of the many small, wooden bowls that sat near him. Once he had done this, he separated it into cups of warm water which he stirred for some time. Only when he finished did he look up from his work and face Achilles and Patroclus who were still hovering near the entryway. He gaped at Patroclus, as if the shock of seeing him alive and well was still fresh, like he had entirely forgotten the events of the other day or had thought them to be merely a dream. "Prince Achilles. Patroclus.” He stood frozen, cups still cradled in his hands. It took him a moment to snap himself out of whatever spell he was under, but when he had he was hurrying over to the two of them before Patroclus could even blink. “Is something wrong?” He asked, giving Patroclus’ frame a once over, scanning for some sort of obvious injury. If his hands had not been full Patroclus was sure he would have started to poke and prod at him with his scarred fingers. “Oh no, no,” Patroclus said, words rushing from his mouth. He raised his hands in front of himself to block the medics' eyes from where they were roaming over Patroclus’ abdomen and the scar they both knew lay under his tunic. He took a couple of hurried steps back and landed right into Achilles’ front. Strong hands clasped his hips to steady him faster than Patroclus could pull out a breath, and the movement alone startled him so much that he almost sprang forward into Machaon. “I’m fine,” Patroclus choked out. “We’re both fine.” “Are you sure?” Machaon asked. “You look a little-” “We only wondered if we could walk around here a minute,” Achilles interrupted, coming to Patroclus’ rescue. He lowered his voice, conscious of the other men in the tent with them all silently hoping for any bit of their conversation they could to spread about the camp. “This place is familiar to him and we were wondering if maybe a visit here might help him recall something from before.” “Yes,” Patroclus said, eyes trained on the floor. “But that’s only a speculation.” He did not want either of them to get their hopes up in case this visit ended up doing nothing to help him recall his lost memories. He was not sure he could bear the disappointment of both of these men at the same time. “Of course,” Machaon said, a little too enthusiastic for being asked such a simple request. He raised his hands which still held the cups. “Take all the time you need, I'll just be distributing these.” He gave them a slight nod in goodbye and then was off and back to his routine duties of checking in on the men in his care, passing out drinks, and inspecting wounds that were still in the process of healing. “Is there any particular place you would like to start?” Achilles asks. Patroclus shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Nothing feels familiar to me yet. I think I just need to walk around for a little bit.” Achilles nods in understanding. Patroclus makes his way around the tent, trying to ignore the eyes he feels on the back of his neck. It’s a rather large tent. Much larger than any room Patroclus can remember being in before. He wanders off to an empty corner brushing past deserted cots and moving his fingers over the table tops that are covered with bandage cloth, medical tools, and a variety of herbs that sit waiting to be brewed into tea or broken down into a paste. He can almost imagine this room filled to the brim with soldiers, their cheeks streaked with dirt and blood, bits of scraped armor throne haphazardly off to their side. The smells and sounds of war filling up every vacant space. He shuts his eyes and suddenly he’s not imagining it.
He can see his own hands wrapping around the handle of a knife, sawing at the end of an arrow that is lodged in some faceless man's shoulder. The panic that must have risen in him then comes to him now. He can feel it coiled tight in his chest, the same way it must have felt at that moment. He feels the same joy as he slides the arrow free, fingers sticky and blood-soaked. He can see his hands smoothing over bandages and damp foreheads.
Then he is no longer in the tent and there is a hand on his back and a deep, gentle voice in his ear telling him how to splint a wound, guiding his gaze to surgical tools that hang from a cave wall that's flushed as pink petals. The voice guides him, explaining the purpose of each tool with a sort of tender patience.
A sense of calm overcomes him then, of safety, of home. Patroclus can feel the burn of tears building behind his eyes. He suddenly cannot seem to fill his lungs with enough air.
“Do you wish to learn medicine?” a voice asks. Then it’s calling out his name in a way he has only ever heard one other voice speak it before.
“Patroclus.”
“Patroclus!” He does not realize he has fallen back towards the table full of sharp cutting instruments until he feels someone’s hands on him, firm, yet surprisingly gentle. One catches the back of his head before he can smash it into the tabletop. “Breathe,” Achilles says to him. “Are you alright? What happened? One minute you were standing there and then you just-” Patroclus locks eyes with Achilles. Their faces are so close that Patroclus can feel the ends of Achilles' golden hair brushing against his cheeks. 'It’s as soft as it looks,' Patroclus thinks. “I’m fine,” he reassures Achilles. His voice sounds breathless even to his own ears, but he attributes that to him almost fainting. He waits for Achilles to pull him upright and take back his hands, but he does not. Patroclus’ lower back is still braced against the table, Achilles' hand there to separate the rough wood from his tunic. His head and shoulders are still suspended just above disaster. Achilles’ gaze flickers down his face before coming back to meet his eyes again. Patroclus had never noticed how green his eyes were before but now that he has he can’t stop staring. They’re as deep a green as moss, as dark as a bed of ferns. “I saw something,” Patroclus whispers. He’s not sure why he lowers his voice but it feels right with the position they are in, like he’s about to share a secret meant for Achilles ears only, and maybe he is. Those green eyes widen; filling with so much hope that Patroclus almost decides against telling him what he saw. It is probably not what Achilles wants to hear. He is not present in a single one of these memories. They could not even be real memories, just something his brain conjured up to fill in the gaps he was so desperate to be rid of. “Tell me,” Achilles pleads, and Patroclus finds that he is not really capable of denying him anything. He tells Achilles what he saw. He tells him of the wounds he saw himself treat, the tent around them that had been full of pained cries, soldiers calling out in terror and need. He tells him of the cave, of the man who spoke to him yet whose face he did not see. He does not mention to Achilles the comfort that comes from that memory, nor the sorrow that follows it. He watches every shift of Achilles’ features. His breath catches at Patroclus’ mention of the cave and the man’s voice. “Chiron,” Achilles says, voice full of the same emotion that Patroclus is feeling “Chiron?” Patroclus parrots, rolling the name on his tongue. The name itself sparks nothing for him. Its sound is still strange in his mouth. “We lived with him for many years, while we were much younger. He was a teacher of ours. A friend. Does that not sound familiar at all?” “I just saw his surgical tools, like the ones on the table here,” Patroclus looks over his shoulder to glance at them. “Nothing else.” The corner of Achilles’ lips turn downward, gaze softening. “Nothing at all?” he asks. “No one?” Patroclus shakes his head grimly. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be.” Then Achilles is standing them both upright again, pulling Patroclus away from the table. He takes his hands back but does not step away. Their faces are still impossibly close. “Progress is still progress,” he reassures Patroclus. “No matter how insignificant it may feel at the time.” Patroclus sighs, frustrated. “I still can’t remember anyone. I hardly saw anything. I still hardly know anything!” He says, a little harsher than Achilles deserves. "It's nothing to be excited about. It's nowhere near comforting." He turns his back to Achilles, staring down at the tools on the table with determination as if he can will them to reveal more secrets for him. “That wasn’t nothing. You’ve seen your work as a healer,” Achilles says firmly. “You help people, it’s what you do.” He places a hand on Patroclus' shoulder and Patroclus can’t help but tense under his touch. Achilles draws back his hand as quickly as he has placed it, and Patroclus can hear him take a step back. “You’re so kind.” Achilles' voice is strained and Patroclus wants nothing more than to turn back to him again and apologize for taking out his frustration on a man who wants only to help him. But he can’t bear to look at anyone right now. “If you remember nothing else, I'm glad you remember that.” Patroclus swallows thickly. The burning feeling is back behind his eyes. He opens his mouth hesitantly, thinking the words over carefully before he speaks them. “And if I don’t remember anything else. If I can’t-” he swallows again. “If I can’t ever remember who I was before, what then?” “We can figure it out together. If you never get your old memories back you can always make new ones. It does not matter to me if you are never the same as you once were, all that matters is that I have you here.” Achilles says. ”It will not make me love you less.” Patroclus sucks in a sharp breath. Achilles' words hit him all at once and settle deep in his chest, right over the knot of worry that had plagued him since he had first woken up. It only adds to his confusion. The tears that had been building in his vision finally began to spill. He clenches his eyes shut, pressing his lips together to will himself to keep silent. His shoulders tremble with the effort of holding in his cries. “Patroclus?” Achilles' voice is a broken, sorrowful thing. “I need a moment,” Patroclus chokes out, his chest heaving. “Let me-” He can hear Achilles move closer, almost feel the heat of his body behind him. They’re almost touching again. “Please,” He begs. He needs Achilles gone, needs to be alone to process what he has seen, what Achilles has just told him. He does not want an audience for this, no matter how they claim to feel about him. “For me. I just need some time.” “Alright,” Achilles agrees, though reluctantly. “Whatever you need.” Patroclus nods his head, too afraid to speak again. He listens to the sound of Achilles' footsteps retreating. Patroclus braces his hands on the edge of the table in front of him, his shoulders drawn in. The room around him is so silent that he almost forgets he is not alone. He waits for several moments to make sure Achilles is long gone before he takes a breath to compose himself and turns to leave. His strides are long and purposeful, face pointed down towards his feet to hide the tears still lingering on his face. The air smells too much like the sea for Patroclus to find it refreshing. Too salty. Too suffocating. He’s not sure where he’s going as he hurries away from the sounds of crashing waves and faint voices, he just knows he needs to be alone.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Achilles is not sure where to go once he leaves the Medical tent. He rarely feels like this, knocked off his feet, uncertain. The unsteadiness that comes to him now is unnerving. He rarely ever feels anything but self-assured, blazingly confident. The times he does not, as few and far between as they are, had always led him into the circle of Patroclus arms. The words of praise and comfort that followed would always work to mend that small, doubtful part of himself that had begun to develop in the past few years. Patroclus had always cleared the storms in Achilles’ head. Now, he’s not sure if Patroclus ever would again. Achilles thinks he’s going to be sick. He drops clumsily to his knees where he had found Patrolcus just this morning. Not too far from his own tent but hidden behind enough barrels and forgotten supplies that he’s slightly obscure from view if anyone were to come by. He would go to his tent but he’s afraid Bresis would be there, she had hardly left since Patroclus awoke. He does not want to see her now. He doesn’t want to see anyone if he can’t see Patroclus. He also wants to give Patroclus a place to go to. He’s not sure he would feel safe anywhere else in the camp right now and probably needs some sense of familiarity to run to. If one can even become familiar with a place after only a few days. He brings his knees to his chest and runs his fingers through his hair again, a habit he picked up recently when Patroclus had been gone and he had no other means to soothe himself. Bits of his hair are already loosened with all the pulling he has done on his scalp in the last few days, so when he tugs at his hair again in that insistent, grounding way that makes his scalp burn, it takes little effort for the loose strands to come free and gather between his fingers. He had told Patroclus he had loved him, a phrase that came as easy as breathing, that they had traded to each other for years. He had told Patroclus he loved him and Patroclus had told him to leave. It’s an unbearable pain that comes to him, almost as sharp as the loss that took hold of him at the knowledge of his beloved's death. He is not used to feeling unwanted, especially not by the only person who he had thought would want him forever. He was being selfish, he knew it. He had sworn to himself he would not be, that he would give Patroclus time, and be grateful for the reunion he had been allowed. That he had been blessed with. He would do right by Patroclus and give him everything he asked for, no matter how much it would hurt Achilles. But oh, how it ached. All he wanted to do was take hold of Patrcolculs and never let him go. To show him all the love he had thoughtlessly depleted him of in the last several months. He wanted to repent. Needed to. But he could hardly get near Patrolcus without him flinching away, regarding him as some overly concerned stranger.
‘What am I going to do?’
“Do you mind if I sit here?” Achilles jerks his head up from where it was pressed in between his knees. He is shocked to see Phoenix lowering himself down onto a crate near Achilles. He says nothing of the position he found Achilles in, no look of disgust that Achilles was sure he would find. Instead, he simply says: “I was wondering when I’d finally come across you.” Achilles gathers his voice. “I should have come to you sooner. I apologize.” Phoenix waves his hand dismissively but not cruelly. “We are far past apologies now, Achilles. It is alright. I know you’ve been preoccupied as of late.” Achilles curls in on himself a little. “What troubles you?” “I do not deserve your sympathy,” Achilles says. “Nor do I need it.” “It is not sympathy I bring, Achilles, only an ear to listen if you need it. I’ve listened to many of your troubles in the years I’ve known you. I’d say I’m quite the expert now.” Phoenix’s voice is soft, nowhere near scolding, but Achilles feels his stomach sink all the same. “But I have not listened to you,” he says, voice bitter as he recounts his follies. “You tried to warn me and I did not heed your advice. I’m so sorry.” “I thought I said that we were beyond apologies, young prince.” This he says firmly. “I would think you would be done with giving me advice now, after last time.” Phoenix sighs, the same way he used to when Achilles was being particularly difficult as a young boy. “I raised you like my own, Achilles. One should recognize the faults in their children, yes, but they should not discard them so easily for having these faults. Only fools expect perfection. I’m old enough to have learned that a guiding hand is best. You were not ready to listen then. Are you ready to listen now?” Phoenix looks down at Achilles from where he rests near his feet, his eyes full of nothing but care. Achilles swallows around the lump in his throat. “Yes,” He says. “Then I will be here to advise you. Now tell me, what troubled you?” It is like a dam is broken and every thought in Achilles’ head begins to spill from his mouth. He tells him of the distance that stretches between him and Patroclus which feels as wide as an ocean, impossible to reach across. How he has flinched away from every attempt Achilles had made at comfort. Then the trip to the medical tent and the fleeting glimpses of past memories that had come to Patroclus. How Patroclus did not even seem to share his joy over this. How he threw him out, begged him to leave. “I don’t understand,” Achilles says. “I tried to comfort him but he just pushed me away. It’s never been that way before and I don’t think I can handle it. I want to help him, I just don’t know how. Everything I do seems to be the wrong move.” He buries his head in his hands. “I’ve always known how. I knew him better than I knew myself, or at least I thought I did, but now….now I don’t know anymore. Every interaction feels like another failure, another way I’ve wronged him.” “You’re looking at it too much like a challenge. This isn’t a battlefield, Achilles. This is Patroclus. There is no strategy to trust. It’s not some race you have to win. It has to be gained naturally. There is no hurrying it along, no forcing it.” “I don’t understand why it is such a struggle,” Achilles wines. “I did this when we were children. When he had spoken to no one I got him to speak to me. It was so easy then. Why can I not do it now?” “You are not children anymore. You’re both very different people. Things will never be the same as they once were. Change is just something that comes with age.” Phoenix runs a gnarled hand through his beard. “Besides, the circumstances are very different. He’s starting from nothing. He knows no one, not even himself. He’s frightened, Achilles.” “I’m not trying to frighten him,” Achilles cries. That was the one thing that he had been afraid of, that Patroclus would see him as he was now and have fear come to him easier than love. “It is not just you, it’s everyone, it’s this place. You are expecting too much of him at once. You want him to remember a whole lifetime of memories in only a few days all while he’s still trying to come to terms with what has happened to him in a place that is all but strange. Of course, he’s going to lash out, push you away.” Phoenix rests a hand on his shoulder. “You need to take things at his pace, not yours. Be there to support him if he asks for it but only if he asks. He needs to feel some sense of control. I know you are going through a lot, but so is he. You need to let him make the first move.” Achilles nods sullenly. Phoenix clears his throat “Achilles,” he continues, in the same soft voice he used on Achilles when he was very small. That’s how he knows he’s not going to like whatever Phoenix is about to say. “You also need to prepare yourself for the possibility of his memories never fully returning. There is no guarantee what happened today will happen again.” It’s like a punch to his gut. It’s a scenario he doesn’t want to think about, can’t think about. “You need to know what you will do if this is the case.” “I will not abandon him,” Achilles says firmly. “Not again.” “I trust you to do what is right, Achilles.” Achilles scowls. “I wouldn't.” “You’re a smart man,” Phoenix says. “You have been given a second chance and would be foolish to squander it, and you are no fool. I should know, I taught you.” This gets a small smile from Achilles. He looks up into Phoenix's eyes, trying to convey his gratitude and apologies all in one glance. He doesn’t have to say it, Phoenix knows. He always does. “I won’t fail him again,” Achilles says instead. “Nor you. I swear it.” Phoenix merely nods his head. It is a while before he finally speaks again. “Agamemnon is hosting a banquet for all of the Greek camps tonight, to honor the joint effort of the nations on the battlefield once more. To honor you as well.” Achilles scoffs. “Was this what you had been waiting to tell me all along?” Phoenix ignores his comment. “You should be present.” “I do not care to make pleasantries with men I hate or celebrate an honor I care nothing for. I said I would return to the fight because that was what Patroclus would have wanted…when he wanted things from me,” he adds bitterly. “I do not care for this blasted war any longer.” “It would look good for the Myrmidons if their leader is there,” he tries again. “You old men and your ulterior motives.” Achilles huffs, but there’s a hint of fondness that seeps through his voice. He cannot find it in himself to be annoyed at Phoenix. He owes him too much. However, that does not mean he cannot make him work for his win. “Alright,” Achilles relents, after some time of silence on his part. “I’ll be there.”
******
Patroclus collapses in a heap at the edge of the woods near the Myrmidons camp. It is blissfully quiet here. The only sound that can be heard is his own labored breathing. He tries to gather himself, pulling deep mouthfuls of air into his lungs. He’s not quite sure why he had gotten so upset. He had been waiting since he had woken up for things to come to him, wanted so badly to see the pleased expressions on people’s faces when he told them of his memories that were no longer lost. Now, however, he feels nothing like he expected. Only disappointment. Disappointment that it was not enough, that it might never be enough. He still feels like a stranger, even with the new information he has gained over the past day. He doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be. He feels like he’s without direction, without purpose. Empty. He thought that feeling would start to fade after he remembered a few things, but it hasn’t. And then there was the matter of Achilles. This devotion he held for Patroclus was overwhelming. He was not sure this man had ever done anything casually or without his full heart in all his life. He had never felt more full yet more terrified than when he was in his presence. It was hard to swallow so much care. There was also that expectation that he seemed to hold for Patroclus, always searching for something, always disappointed every time Patroclus did not deliver whatever it was he had wanted. He wanted him to remember things but had shied away when Patroclus had tried to ask him things about the past before. ‘Maybe he just wants you to figure it out yourself, doesn’t want to spoon-feed you.’ Achilles does not want to talk about their past together sometimes, but other times it is all he wants to speak of. It was all too confusing. He tenses when he hears the tale-tell sound of footsteps approaching him. He’s put to ease, however, when he hears the voice that calls out to him. “What are you doing out here all by yourself,” Briseis says, accent curling over the words. “I’m not a child,” Patroclus says dully. He does not move to face her nor to greet her, yet Briseis comes to him anyway. “That is not what I meant,” Briseis says smoothly, taking a seat in the grass next to Patroclus. It seems it would take much more than Patroclus’ sour mood to deter her. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “Nothing.” “I know the look of a heavy burden when I see one, especially when it is worn on your face.” She brushes one of her own stray curls behind her ears. “What ails you?” Her expression oozes comfort and reassurance. It only takes one look for Patroclus to crumble. He turns his face from her, resting his cheek against his shoulder and looking out at the sparse trees that make up the start of the woods. “Does it not frustrate you that I’m not the person I once was?” Briseis sighs. He can hear the soft rustling of the fabric of her dress as she shifts to move closer to him, resting her temple against his bicep. “But you are,” She says earnestly. “Memories or not you are still the same person, the same man I love. You might not have the same experiences but the things that make up you, deep down, are still in there. You don’t have to have these old memories to be complete. Would it be better if you had them, of course, but that does not mean you cannot go on without them and not still be whole.” “You mean it?” Patroclus asks weakly. Briseis wraps her arms around his shoulders and he leans into her embrace. “I only cherish our memories together because you are a part of them. I no longer need them when I have you here with me again. That is more valuable to me. Just because your memories are lost does not mean you are. You can still discover who you are. That’s not something anyone just knows," she says. "People spend their whole lives figuring that out. You have made a horrible situation easier for me to bear, let me do the same for you." Patroclus takes in a shaky breath, wiping at his eyes with the hand not supporting their weight. “Thank you.” “For what?” she asks, genuine confusion prevalent in her words. “For all you’ve done for me. I hope I was as good to you once as you have been to me.” “You do not need to thank me for being your friend.” “But let me do it anyway.” He holds her close.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Achilles was no stranger to self indulgence. He’d lived around it for years, sharing his space with the men who gorged themselves on glory and pleasure. He had been one of those men once. However now, as he watches the men shove at each other, spilling their drinks all over the ground and groping at the women who serve them, it all seems so unappealing. The empty place beside him doesn’t help much either. He regrets letting Phoenix talk him into this. Speaking of Phoenix, the man had been suspiciously scarce all evening. He should be here, suffering alongside Achilles. It would only be fair. Achilles gets up from his seat at the table, waving off a hand that moves to offer him a drink, to put more food on his untouched plate. His appetite has yet to reappear. Most people are busy talking amongst themselves or spinning to the music and do not pay any attention to Achilles as he slips away from the crowd. There are many men who still despise him for withdrawing from the war effort. His return to the battlefield and the celebration that it has brought about have worked to soften some of the men’s ire. It is hard to be too upset when one is full of good food and drink and the promise of victory is loud in their ears. Still, there are a few whose faces remain sour when pointed toward Achiles, but they know better than to voice these feelings. He is thinking about slipping off and turning in for the night. He has been here for a couple of songs and has shown his face to most of the kings. By now, people should be too preoccupied with their own interests to care where Achilles has gone. Of course, his luck has been poor as of late. “Pelides!” the great, thunderous boom of Ajax’s voice drowns out all other sounds around Achilles. He snaps his head up just in time to see his cousin come stumbling towards him, face flushed as bright as Menalus’ hair. His hands are free of chalice, but the evidence of his unrestrained drinking is stained across his lips. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.” He claps a large hand down on Achilles' shoulder, palm damp. Any other man would have buckled under the weight. Achilles wasn’t any other man. He bares Ajax’s touch with poorly concealed irritation. “Son of Telamon.” “Oh, don’t be that way. I thought you had put all that brooding behind you. You are rejoining the war effort, aren’t you?” “I am.” “Good man!” Ajax declares. His eyes roam over the space around Achilles before falling back down to meet his cousin’s face. “When I heard the rumor of your therapon’s miraculous return I had thought surely you’d bring him around. However, your side seems unusually empty. Was this just rumor then?” “No,” Achilles says stiffly. “He lives. I simply did not think he would want to be subjected to the debauchery and chaos these things bring about.” Or force him to endure the presence of these kings, Achilles finishes in his head. Ajax laughs. “You speak as if he is some delicate maiden. If I am not mistaken, the both of you indulged equally in the feasts of the past. He can handle his own.” “Those were different times.” “So it seems.” Ajax moves his hand off Achilles’ shoulder, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t look so sullen. It appears you still have the favor of some god. Don’t take it for granted. Celebrate. Be merry!” He gives Achilles a particularly harsh pat on the back before stumbling off to find someone who would be more suitable for his entertainment. Achilles scowls, watching him leave and disappear into a swarm of bodies. When he turns his head, he spots Patroclus standing several paces away. It takes a moment for Achilles to shake off the shock. Patroclus is dressed in one of Achilles' finer tunics and the sight has heat rising in Achilles' gut. He looks almost out of place amongst the men with his neat appearance and stiff posture. His eyes scan nervously around the crowd, as if unsure where they should land, where he should go. Achilles is walking in his direction before he even realizes he’s doing it. There is no thinking when it comes to Patroclus. The action is merely instinct. Patroclus spots him when he’s just an arm's length away. The corner of his lips tilt up in one of his soft, gentle smiles that are so Patroclus. Gods he’s missed those. The sounds and people around him seem to fade from his awareness. “What are you doing here?” Achilles asks, perplexed. Patroclus’ smile slips slightly, and Achilles scrambles to get it back. “I’m happy to see you,” he amends hurriedly. "I was just surprised.” “Did you not invite me?” Patroclus asks confused. “A man named Phoenix said that-” he falls short, eyes widening in his sudden self consciousness. “Was that not your advisor? Did you not speak with him?” He turns from Achilles as if he means to leave. “I can go.” “No no, stay. Please." Achilles moves to block his path. "I’d enjoy your company. If you’d grant it to me.”Patroculs' eyes meet his and Achilles swears he stops breathing. “Of course.” Achilles can hardly hide his relief at the words. They settle into a comfortable silence, standing together to watch the people as they move about. Patroclus with curiosity. Achilles with disinterest. Achilles was acutely aware of their closeness. The exposed skin of Patroclus’ arm nearly brushed his own. His eyes moved to trail down the length of it ending at Patroclus’ empty hand. “Are they always like this?” Patroclus asked suddenly, snapping Achilles' attention back to his face. He had moved closer to Achilles to whisper to him, and his face was so near it almost startled Achilles. The room was too loud for anyone to hear them, there was no need to whisper. Achilles did not dare to mention that. “Worse,” Achilles says. When Patroclus looks at him confused he amends himself. “I forget that you do not remember them.” He points out Agamemnon, sitting at the head of a large table, making him easy to spot. “That’s Agamemnon,” Achilles explains, venom oozing from his words. He glowers at the man. “King of Mycenae. He’s claimed himself as our leader but he’s nothing more than self serving bastard. He wouldn’t know loyalty if it bit him on the ass.” Patroclus follows Achilles’ gaze, stifling a laugh. “He looks the type.” Achilles smiles, pleased. “You always have had good judgment.” Agamemnon’s brother is sitting nearest to him so Achilles points him out next. “And that’s Menelaus, king of Sparta. Agamemnon’s brother, and the reason we’re on this gods forsaken beach.” “He brought us to war?” “His wife, technically. Paris, one of the many Trojan princes, stole her from her bed chamber as she slept. Or so everyone says.” “All these people,” Patroclus gestures to the men around them. “They just dropped what they were doing to come to the king of Sparta’s aid then?” “Not exactly.” Patroclus turns back to Achilles, entranced in his story. “They all signed an oath,” he continues. “Most of these men were once suitors to Helen before she was married to Menelaus. They all made a pact before her groom was chosen that they would defend her from any force that tried to tear her from her husband. To keep a war from breaking out.” “You were a suitor of her’s then?” Achilles grinned at him, teeth gleaming. “No, but you were.” Patroclus balks, his doe eyes widening. Achilles wants to kiss him. “Me?” Achilles throws his head back and laughs. “Yes, you. Don’t look so surprised. Helen would have considered herself lucky. You were surely shaped by Aphrodite’s hand.” Patroclus’ dark skin flushes. “I did not think I was royalty,” He says, shifting the topic away from his beauty. Achilles allows it, but just barely. “You were once,” Achilles says. He almost teasingly tells him that he is better off far from his father’s hands. That Achilles could provide him with better care than any crown. But that would be a lie. His shortcomings are clear to him now. He’s done nothing worth bragging over. Patroclus does not ask what happened to his royal title and Achilles does not offer to tell him. These are some of the memories Achilles is grateful Patroclus had lost. He knows how much they had tormented him. “That’s the man who spoke to me in your tent.” “Our tent,” Achilles corrects, then follows Patroclus’ finger over to Odyssus who sits nursing a full cup. “That’s Odysseus, King of Ithaca. I wouldn’t heed a thing he says. He can twist his words as well as he can speak them. It’s best to keep that one in your sights.” “Duly noted.” Achilles finds Diomedes next. “That’s the king of Argos, Diomedes. He’s a good fighter but he needs better company. He’s around Odysseus too much for his own good. It’s said they both have the eye of Athena.” Achilles points out his cousin, great Ajax. Son of Telemon and Prince of Salamis. His hulking frame is easy to spot. Next is little Ajax, prince of Locris. Then Idomeneus, King of Crete. “That’s Nester, King of Pylos,” Achilles finishes at last. He beats Patroclus to the question he knows he’s about to ask. “His skills lie more as an orator than a soldier now, but he was great once. That's how the story goes for all old men, isn't it?” “Will that one day be your fate?” Patroclus muses. “Doomed to sit on the sidelines and reminisce over your past greatness.” Achilles stills. “What?” Patroclus says, his voice is affectionate, teasing. “You don’t think you’d be a good fit for a wise elder?” He looks Achilles up and down as if he is imagining it. “I could see you surrounded by young men eager to hear of your past victories. You’ve done well enough recounting old stories to me. I’m sure you would make a fine teacher.” Achilles does his best to keep his face expressionless. “I’ve never thought much about it.” “Never? Surely you don’t plan to live on this beach for eternity. There is more to life than war, Achilles. Nothing lasts forever, there is always an ‘after’” “I suppose.” Patroclus places a hand on Achilles' arm, and though his skin is no longer frigid from death’s touch, it has yet to return to its original warmth. That too remains missing. “You should think about it.” Achilles opens his mouth to say something, to plead his case, but it is at that moment that Odysseus spots them and raises himself from his seat to silence the room. Those who see him immediately quiet down and the rest of the room soon follows. “I’d like to propose a toast,” Odysseus announces, raising his chalice. His voice is impeccably composed for someone who has had his mouth on the rim of a cup all evening. Achilles winces, preparing for what is coming. “To Prince Achilles,” he gestures to him with his cup. “Who has graciously agreed to rejoin our war effort.” A few men cheer and take a drink. “With his help, we will be back on the path to success, and Troy will soon fall by our hands.” Achilles tilts his head in acknowledgment of Odysseus’ gesture but does no more. His words do not feel as friendly as they do calculated. Achilles is not sure of his motive, but there must be one. Odysseus never speaks kindly of anyone but his wife unless it will work in his favor. “And to our honored guest,” He turns to Patroclus now, eyes shining in the torchlight. The whole room follows his gaze. “Who has defied all odds to join us. Patroclus, we are glad to have you here.” Another cheer goes up, but one much smaller than what Achilles had received. Patroclus waves away the praise. The attention has him shifting uncomfortably. "To Greece!" someone shouts and a chorus of cheers follows. Once the men have moved on Patroclus turns towards Achilles. “Is there somewhere we could go that’s less-” “Loud?” Achilles finishes. Patroclus shoots him a relieved smile. “Yes,” He says. “Less of everything.” “Follow me.” Achilles leads him out of the tent and into the cool night. They can still hear the sounds of voices and music, even from their more secluded spot, but it is doubtful that there will be any place truly quiet in all of the Achaean camp as long as the banquet rages on. There are a few people still staggering about or huddled around cookfires but they pay the pair of them no mind. Achilles almost takes a seat on the ground but the sound of Patroclus’ stomach growling stops him. “Are you hungry?” Patroclus had not been around for the meal and had not taken a thing from the passing plates after he had arrived. Achilles should have asked earlier. “Maybe a little,” Patroclus replies sheepishly. “You should have said something!” Achilles steps back towards the banquet tent. “Give me a moment.” “I’m alright, really,” Patroclus starts, attempting to pacify Achilles but he is already off. “That is a problem I can easily fix,” he calls over his shoulder. “Wait here for me.” Patroclus’ quiet laughter fades behind him.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Patroclus is sprawled like a starfish against the ground when Achilles returns. He can hear Achilles’ sandals against the rough earth first. He sits up and watches as the dark shape of him approaches. “I’ve got something good for you,” Achilles calls, his voice a sing song melody. This man hardly seems like the one Patroclus had met when he had first awoke, manic and blood soaked. He’s soft in ways Patroclus would never have imagined at first glance. He can be overwhelming, certainly, but maybe Patrolcus can learn to better handle him. He thinks he would like to try. As Achilles comes near, Patroclus finds that the feeling of uneasiness does not come to strike him. Instead, it is replaced with a delicate, blooming feeling Patrolcus is a little scared to name. “What is it?” Patroclus yells back. Achilles is holding something dark, fingers splayed in an attempt to keep the objects safely in his hand. When he gets closer, he tosses one of the small objects at Patroclus with a softly muttered: “Catch.” Patroclus reaches up his hands and catches it swiftly, cradling it in his cupped palm. He runs a thumb over the deep purple skin of what looks like a fig. Achilles is close enough now for Patroclus to see his face without strain. His expression is bright with wonder, suddenly boyish in its glee. His face is softer, then suddenly, his hair is shorter, eyes full of innocence. He does not look like himself. But then, Patroclus begins to not feel like himself either.
Everything feels bigger than it had before, or maybe he feels smaller.
The night sky and solid earth around him fall away and he’s in a dining hall of white marble. The sunlight from the open windows warms his skin.
It is no longer just the two of them. A flood of young boys surrounds Achilles, pushing themselves closer to his small body with an eagerness Patroclus has only seen in dogs. Even in his youth, Achilles shines strong, otherworldly, beautiful.
This Achilles, with his handful of fruit, for it is Achilles there is no mistaking him, gives Patroclus a look full of daring. His eyes hungry for something, though for what Patroclus isn’t sure. His small hands hold a fig that mirrors Patrolcus’ own.
Patroclus brings the fig to his lips and takes a bite. The bright lights and milk white walls of the strange hall fade away and the world around him comes rushing back into focus.
Patroclus falls back onto the ground, lips sticky with juice. That had to have been a memory. He wouldn’t have conjered up a thought like that on his own. “Is it that good?” Achilles laughs. “I knew you’d like it.” He flops down on the ground next to Patroclus.“There is plenty more where that comes from, don’t worry” When Patroclus does not respond Achilles nudges him with his elbow. “What is it?” He asks voice turned soft. Patroclus debates on what he should say. His eyes trained on the stars above them. He tries to recall the names of the constellations. He cannot. “What’s that one called again,” Patroclus says instead. He lifts his hand and trails his fingertip along the sky. “It’s on the tip of my tongue but I can’t quite seem to remember.” “Heracles.” Patroclus thinks the name over. It means nothing to him. “Who?” “He was a son of Zeus and a man of immense strength. There is no one who could surpass him even now. He was placed in the sky as a tribute for all he had done.” “He sounds like quite the hero,” Patroclus says. Achilles turns on his side, elbow digging into the ground so he can rest his cheek in his hand and look down at Patroclus. “Are you going to tell me what is actually bothering you, or are you going to pretend that nothing is wrong and have me list constellations for you?” “What’s that one?” Patroclus says, peering up at Achilles innocently and not even bothering to look at where he is pointing. “If you want me to name every star we’ll be here all night.” “That’s fine.” “Talk to me,” Achilles pleads. “I am.” Achilles groans, frustrated, and leans over Patroclus to block the sky from his view. His golden hair falls down around his face like a sun lit waterfall, caging their faces from the rest of the world. “I keep forgetting how well you know me.” Patroclus rolls his eyes. “It’s infuriating.” Achilles grins like a predator. “If I am to be great at one thing it will be this.” “So I’ve noticed.” He shoves at Achilles’ shoulders. “Move off.” “Why should I?” “If you want me to tell you what is on my mind you will do as I say.” Achilles moves back with little protest. “Go on then.” “I saw you, just now.” Achilles laughs. “Of course you did. I’m right here.” “No no. I saw you as a boy, in a white marbled hall. You had figs in your hand.” Patroclus lifts the one he is holding. His fingers are stained from its insides. “They looked just like this.” “My father’s house,” Achilles said. “There were other boys too.” “Fosters sons of my father,” Achilles explains. “He had many. You included.” That did explain how Patroclus had ended up inside Achilles’ halls of all places. He was a charity case. That part did sound believable. “You looked so young,” Patroclus said, a little in awe. “We were young, once.” “That must have been ages ago.” Patroclus takes another bite of the fig, trying not to choke on it in his position. He chews for a moment, then clears his throat and speaks again. “How long have we known each other?” “All my life,” Achilles answers simply. Now it is Patrolcus’ turn to laugh. “No, but really, how long? You said I used to live in my father’s house before I came to be with you, and we appear close in age. You’re confusing me, both cannot be true. We were not infants together.” “My life did not truly start until you were in it. It does not matter how old I was. Everything that came before that was irrelevant.” Patroclus lets out a startled breath at his confession. “You don’t mean that.” He is pinned under Achilles’ gaze which is sharp and unrelenting. “I’ve never meant anything more.” Patroclus can’t bear it. He has to change the subject. “About this morning.” He can sense Achilles going taunt next to him. “It’s fine-” “You didn’t let me finish. I wanted to apologize to you.” Achilles sits up fully, looking down at Patroclus as if he had just insulted his good name. “You owe me nothing of the sort.” Patroclus sits up with him. He has a feeling this is going to turn into a conversation for which he should be upright. “I do,” Patroclus insists. “You were trying your best to be kind and I punished you for it. I should not have reacted to you in such a manner when you were only trying to comfort me.” This only seems to make Achilles more upset, for he lets out a wounded sound. “You should not feel like you need to accept my affection if you do not want it. I should be the one asking for forgiveness here, not you. I’ve been pushing you to act and be how you were before, and that was wrong of me. I should not have been trying to get certain actions from you, expecting certain behaviors. Forcing my affections onto you when it was evident you did not want them.” Achilles is growing frantic now, words leaving his mouth in a blur. His hand creeps up towards his hair but Patroclus catches it before it can reach its mark. He tosses his fig aside and hears it pat pitifully against the dirt. “Achilles.” Achilles ignores him in favor of continuing his speech. He won’t look at Patroclus. His eyes instead moved rapidly between his lap and the ground. “You do not owe that to me and I shouldn’t have assumed.” “Achilles.” “You don’t need to force yourself to fit into a role you’re not comfortable in. I’ve been so selfish trying to coerce you back into a romance with me when you are still going through the shock of-” Patroclus grabs Achilles’ chin with the hand not holding his, forcing Achilles to look at him. “Achilles, by the gods, could you stop talking for one moment?” Achilles snapped his mouth shut. His skin is warm, and Patroclus draws soothing circles against it with his thumbs. This quiets Achilles, his defensive posture eases, his breathing slows. “Thank you. Yes, you’ve been a little much recently, but you are not a villain here. You have not forced me into anything I did not want to do. The expectations have weighed heavy on me you are right, but I do not resent you for that. I’m grateful.” “You are?” “Of course I am. If things are scary now I don’t even want to imagine what they would be like If I was going through this alone. It feels good to have someone who cares for me, even if it can be a bit much at times. You have a good heart, Achilles. I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.” “Patroclus,” Achilles starts slowly. “There’s something I should tell you.” Patroclus clamps a hand over his mouth. “I’m done hearing apologies from you.” Achilles pushes it off. “It’s important.” Achilles pleads. “I think we’ve both begged for forgiveness enough for one night. It can wait.” “But-” “Achilles.” He says his name with finality. He still has his hand in Achilles’ and he squeezes it tightly. “Let us come to a truce.” he proposes. “A truce?” lines of confusion build on Achilles’ face. “Yes, a truce,” Patroclus repeats. “I won’t push you away and you won’t try to smother me. I would like to try being companions again,” He holds up his other hand to keep Achilles from blurting something out. “But starting with friendship. I’d like to get to know you, for a second time, but I do not think I am ready for, um,” he clears his throat, suddenly embarrassed. “Other things.” “Alright,” Achilles says. His eyes are gentle as he looks over Patroclus, and Patroclus feels all the nerves and insecurity that the request had brought forth quickly slipping away. They remain together under the stars for a while longer until it begins to grow increasingly difficult for Patroclus to hold his eyes open. Achilles helps him to his feet. “Let's get you to bed.” The banquet is still in full swing despite the late hour. However, there are others who seem to share Patroclus and Achilles’ idea of turning in for the night. As they walk along the beach towards their tent, Patroclus spots several tent flaps being pulled shut and cook fires being extinguished. Their tent is dark and quiet when they approach. Patroclus expects Bresies to be moving about or asleep somewhere inside but she is absent. Patroclus wonders if he should be worried, but maybe she just needs a rest from their presence. Patroclus wouldn’t blame her. The light from the stars and the moon do not reach inside the tent, and when Achilles closes the flap they are plunged into darkness. Achilles, who knows this place like the back of his hand is unfazed and simply leads Patrolcus over to the bed. “You take the bed,” Achilles says. “Are you sure?” He asks. “It’s more than wide enough for us both.” They had been in it together only the night before. “I’m sure.” “I do not mind, truly,” Patroclus insists. Achilles merely collects one of the many animal hides piled upon the pallet and drags it to the other side of the tent. The darkness swallows him up, and Patroclus has to rely only on the sounds he is making to guess what Achilles is doing. “Don’t sleep on the floor!” Patroclus protests. He must be lying down now since Patrolcus can no longer see any hits of his form from across the tent. Achilles had grown suspiciously quiet as well. “Achilles.” “Good night, Patrolcus.” Patroclus sighs. He knows this is a battle he will not win. He climbs into bed. “Good night, Achilles.” It is the first time he can remember that he has mourned Achilles’ absence.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Achilles wakes up before Helos has a chance to pull his chariot across the sky. The tent is still dark and he can hear each exhale of Patroclus’ sleeping breath from behind him. He’s not sure how long he was asleep but It could not have been for long. His eyes still have that heavy, sore feeling that comes with restlessness. He’s felt the same all consuming exhaustion for days. He fears he's stuck with it now. It’s cold without the press of another body against him. His nights have not been like this since Skyros. He hadn’t slept well then either. He lies there for a few more moments before surrendering to the fact that he is unlikely to get any more sleep. He slips out from underneath his covers and moves soundlessly around the tent. He watches Patroclus for a few moments. He had almost confessed it all to him last night, almost told him of all the wrongs he had committed towards him, the hand he played in Patrolcus' death. He had looked at Achilles in a way that had almost stopped Achilles' heart and he had felt so guilty keeping Patroclus in the dark. He didn't deserve such looks. But then Patroclus had stopped him and maybe that had been for the best. Patroclus trusted him and Achilles had always been a selfish man. Why break his heart again? He might be happier without that particular memory and wasn't that Achilles' job, to make him happy? He tries to ignore how wrong it feels. He has never kept anything from Patroclus before, never dreamed of doing so, but as he stares over at Patroclus sleeping peacefully he tells himself it would hurt him more if he had the truth. When he thinks of it that way it's an easy decision. When he opens the tent flap, the sun is just barely peeking up over the horizon. The dusky blue of the sky bleeds into the gold of early morning sunlight. The stars are still bright pinpricks above him. He stops in his tracks when he sees Briseis cooking maza on hot stones. She’s sitting on her legs, dress hiked up and knees pressed into the ground and spread apart for balance so she can bend over the remnants of a fire. He considers turning around and retreating back into the tent but Briseis chooses this moment to look up and stretch her neck, rolling her shoulders to fight off the strain. She catches him then, watching her, and her face hardens. Achilles doesn’t expect her to say anything but she does. She pulls a few pieces of maza from the heat and gathers them onto a plate in her other hand. “Are you hungry?” she asks sitting back away from the fire and pulling her dress back down over her legs. Achilles shakes his head. “No.” “Come,” she waves him over. “Have some anyway.” Achilles sits. She hands some maza to him which Achilles takes reluctantly. She takes one for herself and chews it slowly. “You eat it plain?” “I didn’t feel like making cheese.” Achilles rips pieces off his own food but does not eat them, collecting the torn bits in his hand instead. “I have honey in my tent,” Achilles offers. “I’m alright.” The silence between them is tense and Achilles regrets coming over. He shouldn’t have let Briseis call him over. They are rarely ever alone like this. Every time they have been was never pleasant. Briseis goes back to flipping over the bread, making sure it cooks evenly. Her dark curls fall around her face but she makes no move to brush them aside. Achilles is unsure how she can properly see what she is doing. “You are going to fight?” She asks, not bothering to look up at Achilles. Her accent curls thickly around the words. “Yes,” Achilles says simply. Briseis hums in acknowledgment, not bothering to say anything more. “You will watch over him while I am gone?” “I thought you did not need my help,” Briseis says bitterly. “I’ve changed my mind.” Briseis scoffs. “Yes, I will watch over him. You need not ask.” They lapse back into silence. Briseis' distaste for him is evident and has been since Patrolcus’ death, though he is sure she had felt it from the moment she laid eyes on him. He almost commends her for her boldness in hating him so openly now. He knows she is justified in her hatred of him. He had never really known loss before Patroclus was taken from him, and even that had been brief. He cannot imagine all that Briseis must feel. All that she has lost, all the pain caused by Achilles' hand. Briseis stands, gathering up the food and brushing stray bits of Earth from her dress. “Briseis,” He says quickly before she can make off. “I am sorry. For everything. Truly.” Briseis’ face shows no emotion. Stoic in her indifference. “You owe me far more than just an apology.” “Could I ever make it up to you?” She levels Achilles with a look and he knows what she’s about to say before the words leave her mouth. “No,” she says evenly. “You could not.” Then she leaves him. When Automedon brings the chariot around much later, he is shocked to see Achilles so bare. Achilles wears only a tunic, his hair tied back and secured out of his face. “My price,” Automedon says, voice hesitant and unsure. “Will you not dawn any armor? I’m sure one of the kings would gladly lend you a set until a new one is sent to replace your old attire.” “I do not need armor,” Achilles says simply. “It was only for show anyway.” He climbs onto the chariot behind Automedon. “Let us go.” Automedon tugs at the reins and the horses take off. The Myrmidons are lined up waiting for their leader. When they see Achilles coming near, they all stand at attention. Automedon steers the chariot in front of the formation of Myrmidon men and leads them out to meet the rest of the Greek army. There is a ruble of anticipation that moves through the men. Achilles can hear it in the murmur of voices, see it in the way they bounce and shift on their feet like horses before a race. The Greeks had not been together as one army for a while, and with the arrival of Achilles’ soldiers to make up for those that were lost in Achilles' absence, along with Achilles himself, the men were eager to gain footing once more. Odysseus is the first to greet him, and as the army starts its march towards the field of battle, Achilles can feel Odysseus's eyes pinned on him. It’s as if he fears Achilles will change his mind and turn around if he dares look anywhere else. The thought is annoying at first, but it quickly shifts to a pleasant feeling the more Achilles thinks about it. He likes that he can make Odysseus fear in this way, have the man dependent on something only Achilles can offer and could just as easily take away. With as much pain as Odysseus has caused both him and Patroclus over the years he relishes being able to at least be a small thorn in the man’s side. As they draw closer to the battlefield, Achilles can see the faint line of Trojan soldiers lined in front of the city’s impenetrable wall. The silhouette of archers standing around the top, bodies hallowed by the steadily rising sun behind them. They approach the field at a lightning pace, and the adrenaline rises in Achilles like laughter, quick and light. Achilles takes one of the spears from where they rest near his hip. He hefts it and prepares to throw.
******
Patroclus draws a line in the sand, then another. He forms the words: What I know. Below it he begins his list.
We are at war because of a husband’s desperate attempt to reclaim his wife, to show his own power, to make history.
I was once a suitor to the stolen woman. Patroclus scoffs as he writes this. Ridiculous.
I was once royalty until I wasn’t.
I was raised as one of the many foster sons in the house of Achilles’ father.
Achilles is a prince. His mother is a goddess.
I was a soldier.
I was a better medic.
I was good at helping people. I liked to do so.
I was taught by Chiron . Patroclus still did not remember who that really was besides Achilles' vague answer of “ a friend,” but he adds it anyway. I was killed in battle from a stab wound. He touches the place on his stomach absentmindedly.
Briseis is one of my dearest friends.
Achilles loves you.
I loved Achilles.
Patroclus stares at the words for a moment. Something about it doesn’t sit quite right with him. He flattens his hand and drags his palm across the words in the sand erasing them. The blank space stares up at him. He picks up his stick again and writes I love Achilles in its place. He erases that too. Achilles still means something to him. His place just feels more uncertain now. I care for Achilles. He looks down at the words, frustrated. ‘That will have to do,’ he thinks. He makes another column beside it. What I don’t know. The first item on the list is obvious. How did I get here? From the number of shocked faces Patroclus had seen it was evident that a person did not normally go from dead to alive again. This current existence was a mystery. How did I come to live with Achilles? Achilles had said Patroclus was once a prince and he could not help but be a little curious how he lost such a title.
What happened to my parents?
He had been ruminating on his death since he had found out the cause. Who was the man who killed me? Achilles had said he was a skilled soldier, but maybe he was only that. No one notable, nothing Patroclus should dedicate too many thoughts to. ‘ People die all the time in war. It surely wasn’t personal .’ And of course, there were all of the blank spaces for the memories he did not remember forgetting. “You are not much of an artist, are you?” He had been so transfixed on making his list that he did not hear Briseis sneaking up on him. “I’m not drawing,” Patroclus says. “I’m writing. I wanted to look down on all my thoughts.” ‘ I want them to feel more solid.’ Briseis stares down at the shapes in the sand as if she is trying to decipher them. “What does it all say?” Patroclus suddenly feels a little foolish. He tosses his stick to the ground and begins to hurriedly wipe the letters away. “It’s Nothing important.” He feels a little glad that she cannot read them. A part of him wants to figure out this mystery on his own, wants to see her and Achilles' proud faces as he presents them with the information himself. Briseis grabs his wrist to stop him. “You should teach me.” “Teach you?” “To read them.” “I don’t think I’d be a very good teacher.” “Of course you would be. You taught me to speak Greek, didn’t you?” “Did I?” Briseis laughs and hands the stick back to Patroclus. “Let us start with the alphabet,” she says. “You do remember the alphabet, don’t you?” Patroclus makes a sound of mock outrage and shoves her playfully. “Of course I remember the alphabet.” “Well then teach me,” she says through her laughter. “It will be good for your memory.” Patroclus rolls his eyes and gets to craving out shapes in the sand. Briseis was good at getting him to forget his worries, maybe too good. ****** Patroclus is sitting outside the tent. He had wandered back some time ago after Briseis had grown bored of his lesson. He had an underlying feeling that she hadn’t wanted to learn the alphabet as much as she had insisted she did. Patroclus’ eyes were shut as he sat, his head was lifted to the sky to better feel the sunlight. It kissed its way down his face warming his skin pleasantly. The sound of approaching chariot wheels grabs his attention and when Patroclus finally cracks his eyes open Achilles is there in all his glory. He’s bloodied and golden and poised atop the chariot behind Automedon who steers it with a practiced ease. The chariot comes to a halt near the tent and Achilles lowers himself to the ground. He catches sight of Patroclus and seems to freeze. Patroclus doesn’t give him a chance to dart away before he pushes himself off the ground to join Achilles. “Are you alright?” Patroclus asks. His voice is void of worry. He sees the splatters of blood Achilles wears for what they are, without direction or cause, posing no harm to Achilles himself. Patroclus already knows the answer before Achilles speaks. “I’m fine.” “You look like a mess,” Patroclus jokes. Achilles cracks a smile at that. “I feel like a mess.” “I’ll fetch you some water.” “Oh no,” Achilles says suddenly. “Don’t trouble yourself, please!” “It’s no trouble at all,” Patroclus says easily. He picks up a hydriai resting by the tent and makes off with it before Achilles can protest further. He grips it by the handles all the way to a nearby stream where he dips its large, round body beneath the water until it’s filled. He carries it back to the tent, muscles straining pleasantly under the new weight of it. It feels good to do some work, he has been sitting around idly and he did not realize how much he missed the feeling of helping, of doing something useful. Achilles has already made his way into the tent by the time Patrolcus makes it back with the water. He is so distracted by his task that he does not have a moment to prepare himself when he bursts into the tent and gets an eye full of Achilles’ naked back. He has enough mind to tighten his grip on the hydriai’s handles to keep it from slipping from his hands but not much else. His mind empties of everything but the image of golden skin and taunt muscles as Achilles stretches his arms over his head to relieve the tension in his shoulders from a day of fighting. The knots of his spine push through his skin and Patroclus follows the ridges down and down. His eyes widen. He snaps his head up so fast it makes an audible noise. Achilles chooses this moment to turn around. If Patroclus had thought the room had grown hot before it was certainly boiling now. Achilles is looking at him with a sort of confused curiosity. It’s a struggle for Patroclus to keep his eyes on Achilles’ face and nothing else. Patroclus has never been known to be a good fighter, and this too is a battle he loses. “Sorry,” Patroclus says, eyes flicking back up to the ceiling. His breath comes to him a little quicker. It seems to dawn on Achilles then. He flushes but his expression is visibly pleased. “No I’m sorry,” Achilles says, but he sounds nowhere near apologetic. “Old habits and all that.” They stand like that for a moment before Achilles finally says, “Could I use that water? If you don’t mind.” Patroclus jolts, only just remembering that he is still in possession of the water Achilles needs to wash. “Right, of course. Sorry.” He lugs the Hydriai over to Achilles and hands it off to him, eyes still trained up. Achilles chuckles lightly. “There is no need for an apology,” Achilles says, and then he’s taking the jar over to a basin on a table. He fills it with water, then setting the hydriai aside begins to cup the water in his hands and splash it over his face and hair. He is bent over the basin with his back to Patroclus, so he does not see as Patroclus finds a cloth and makes his way over to where Achilles is standing. He is not sure what possesses him at that moment, but before he can think better of it he dips the cloth into the mouth of the hydriai to wet it. he brings the soaked cloth up to Achilles’ back to smooth it over the bumps of his spine and through the sweat and the grime that has collected there. Achilles stills, his next inhale is a sharp, unsteady pull of breath. His hands are hovering just in front of his face and the water they had once held drips slowly from between his fingers and back into the basin below. Patroclus counts each rhythmic drip and times his own breathing to it. The room feels stifling all of a sudden, but Patroclus does not dare cease the soft circles he is making along Achilles' back with the cloth. “You do not have to,” Achilles says, voice low and quiet, as if speaking any louder will break whatever spell has been thrown over the room that has Patrolcus' dizzy, that leaves both their hearts racing. Patroclus swallows. “I want to.” Just as Patroclus begins to think he has overstepped, has passed the line of friendship, passed a line he is not allowed to cross, Achilles is straightening and turning to face him. Achilles' gaze is soft as it roams over Patroclus like their positions are swapped and he is the one cataloging any wounds or scrapped edges. Like Patroclus is the one back from war. His face is still damp from the water, beads of it slide down his nose, over the fullness of his cheeks, collect at the corners of his mouth. He smiles. “I think you’ve washed my back enough." His voice is just above a breath. So Patroclus moves the cloth to his neck. Patroclus can feel every swallow as he moves over his skin. He lets the cloth trail over broad shoulders, down the muscles of Achilles' chest, It smooths over his ribs and the lines of his stomach. “Patroclus.” He has only ever heard his name spoken in such reverence when it comes from Achilles’ mouth. “I did not think-” Their faces have shifted so close together that Patroclus can feel the breath from Achilles’ words against his own lips. He moves to rest his forehead against Patrolcus’ own, eyes closed, his golden lashes fluttering gently. Patroclus’ breath catches. “Patroclus-” “My Prince, I have your- oh!” Patroclus freezes and Achilles’ eyes fly open. His back to Automedon who had just made his way into the tent. Patroclus does not get a chance to catch sight of what Automedon was so desperate to return to Achilles before the boy dashes from the tent with a soft, “ Apologies, my lord.” Patroclus' senses seem to return to him then and he takes a step back. 'What was that?' “I should- I’ll fetch more water.” It's embarrassing how easily his self preservation can crumble. He wants to stay true to his words last night, for his own sake if not Achilles'. But to do that he needs to get out of this tent before he loses what little will he has left. Achilles seems to deflate a little. “If you must.” Patroclus picks up the hydriai that is more than half full. He thinks he should say something to Achilles, but he is not entirely sure what would be fitting in the current moment. An apology doesn’t feel right. 'Don't complicate things for yourself, Patroclus. Climb one mountain at a time.' He flees the tent and has someone else bring Achilles more water.