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This is the story you think you know. Only I am here, naturally, to dispel the myth. But the myth is old and you have heard it countless times, for centuries many have repeated the words of the master, so why would you believe me, now? After all… their story adds up. Except think back to your own life, does everything that has ever happened make perfect sense? Were there no coincidences? No accidents? No mistakes?
But that is too vague, you say. Very well, it is Achilles I speak of, the one born of a goddess and promised great glory by prophecy. The story goes that Achilles loved his childhood companion, and that much I will not deny. Patroclus was his name and Achilles loved him better than any man, woman or god. But back in Greece not even gods were perfect and Achilles was no god. He loved one thing more than his beloved, and that was his fame. One might not want to fault him for this, as his own name was to be paid for in the young blood of his veins, spilled too soon and for a purpose not his own in the battlefields of Troy. A choice, yes, but what is a choice between death real and death imagined? Dead the limbs or dead the spirit, is it truly difficult to imagine a young man with dreams of glory choosing the one over the other? Achilles heart beats no more, but his name is on my lips and known to all, so who can say the price he paid was too dear?
Of course, the second name on my lips is Patroclus, and you might think Patroclus was but what Achilles felt for him. But it is Patroclus who asks Achilles to return to the Troyan battlefield and aid their fellow Greeks and Patroclus to whom Achilles promised anything but that. His word given Patroclus subsequent request was to be granted, to be sure. Patroclus asked for Achilles armour and the reputation he could not put to use himself for fear of destroying. But, I say, is not even a hero allowed to change his mind? After all, the first request was the one favoured by the one doing the asking, if Achilles could not bear to send that one so dear to what was to be clearly his end.
The man in the armour, despite showing unparalleled skill, died after hard battle at the hands of the Troyan Prince and heir, Hector, said to be Achilles only competition in the battlefield. Naturally, Hector could kill Patroclus, but, it is forgotten, that before it ever crossed any mind that he could break Achilles’ soul, it was Achilles all he was hoped to destroy.
The man left behind puts on new armour and faces this warrior wearing the bloodied one, taken from the corpse of his beloved. He fights with such hatred, he pursues with such bloodthirstiness that brave Hector cowers, knowing his fate sealed the moment he is in range of the sword of the soul whose blood he wears. The man is confronted by the god of the river, who favours his enemy, and despite all reason and fairness it is the man who is victorious over the god. They say the man is half god himself but it is not his flesh but his heart that beats strong the blood that rages for revenge at any cost. Many say it is only the gods that feel that deep but you and I, human ourselves, know better than to believe. Hector knows his fate and sees the hand that will end it all, he uses his tongue once more to ask for piety for his soul. The man refuses this and all, as he would refuse his very existence were it possible at all. Hector falls to never rise, but the journey is not over for his body, to become in his killer’s hand a brush for his blood to paint the grounds of his domains.
I put it to you, imagine now: All your world destroyed, gone the one who understands even when you do not understand yourself that you are worthy of your very great name. And imagine too, the kind of love it takes for a person to see beyond not only so enormous a name but also the inevitable pride of a man who knows himself to be great; I ask you, which love is best? Which love sees no rest? Well, it is both, I say! Patroclus asks for the armour and Achilles gives himself instead, dons the metal forged for him, charges the enemies, but leaves his heart behind. Uncertain of the righteousness of his quest and so, for all his skill, in the end, when faced with determined Hector, Achilles sword rings false.
It is only Patroclus left behind, no hero to aid the Greeks. Patroclus only, heartbroken with guilt. And it is then, too late for peace, that bitter Thethis comes to him. Dresses him in her son’s fame, gives him armour worthy of the man to be made immortal in death. Patroclus buries the body that is more his than the flesh of his steps, dons the clothes and cries bitterly over his own name. It is him, after all, who is left.
The time for hesitation is gone, for there is nothing to lose. The once prince knows little of battle but has watched his hero with the fascination of a lover, his eyes have traced the clenching of each muscle, the flight of every spear, his own hands disappear in the desperate reach of his soul for the one most dear. And now, more gods than one perhaps aid him. But with his lover’s killer dead, Patroclus discovers that to his torment there is no end. He is to set all of Troy afire, he confronts Apollo, chances are dire, and little does he care. The world itself ceased to be the very instant Achilles was last to see.
The god begotten arrow flies swift and finds flesh, a heel, they say, but if the flesh is human could it not be anything else as well?
You know the rest, the body falling, the poison running through the hero’s veins. It is truly such a stretch to tell you that the hero is already dead?