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He does not remember much. He remembers the thrill of battle, remembers slaying Sarpedon. He remembers feeling invincible, remembers feeling safe & secure in Achilles’ armor. He remembers Automedon urging him to stop – Achilles does not want you to leave the beach. He remembers the exhilaration he’d felt as he sliced through Trojan after Trojan –
( is this how Achilles feels? is this what it’s like to be Achilles? )
He remembers pursuing the Trojans to the gates, remembers seeing Hector & then…
NOTHING.
He remembers nothing after that. He does not know who brought him back to the camp – Automedon, perhaps, it doesn’t matter. It does not matter because he is doomed. He knows it & so does Achilles. They should have known it from the beginning, he thinks. They should have realized that only the loss of him would convince Achilles to return to battle.
Patroclus had never entertained the thought that he might die first.
He’d been prepared to lose Achilles – he’d spent a decade resigning himself to the knowledge that they would never be going home, that each day that passed was a day closer to Achilles’ death, that any second they spent together could be their last. He had not been prepared for this, but he isn’t afraid – for himself, at least.
He is afraid for Achilles. He knows better than to believe that Achilles will cope easily with this loss. He knows that with his own foolishness ( why didn’t he listen? why didn’t he stay on the beach? ), he has sealed Achilles’ fate.
“I’m sorry,” he says, & saying even that much is a struggle. He’s tired, & Achilles’ arms are as warm as ever. He thinks that if he closes his eyes, he won’t open them again. I’m sorry. He does not want to leave him. He had not meant for this to happen, he would never have gone if he’d realized – he would never have willingly hurt him this way.
He wishes they had never come to Troy. He wishes that they’d stayed at home, safe & happy & in Phthia. Achilles, would it truly have been so terrible? He wants to ask: was glory worth this? He doesn’t ask. He cannot form the words, & even if he could, he isn’t sure that he wants to know the answer. Instead, he wraps his fingers around the fabric of Achilles’ chiton, weakly pulling him closer.
“’chilles,” he mumbles, & his fingers brush against his lover’s tearstained cheek. I’m sorry, he thinks again. I love you.
He smiles, as best he’s able. & then the hand falls limp.