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The fields of Elysium hold the highest luxuries a mortal could hope for upon death. Its name is scarcely spoken among the living, for fear it squandered their chances of seeing it. Every blade of grass, trickle of water, and gentle breeze existed to soothe life's sorrows. No vice was unaccounted for in its eternal fields. Spirits who dragged themselves from the river Lethe with any wit emerged crying tears of relief. Patroclus had not. He remembers only the sound of his arms pushing automatically through the water, the pains preluding death now a distant dream. His mind remained glued to those final moments and hasn’t left since.
He does not go looking for distractions in the afterlife, quick to learn they will find him. Wistful shades fill his ears with their murmurs often, happily formless and kept in existence by the knowledge they dispense. Passings of those he knew in life. A newfound brotherhood between the Minotaur and his slayer hero. Tensions between Hades and his kin. All passed through the small alcove he resides. No news given particularly interests him. It reminds him of years past when his father still hoped to see him king, recounting to his princely ears the events of neighboring kingdoms. It all felt worlds away, and he couldn’t find a reason to care. He is content keeping to himself. He passes time recounting moments or things he wished he had said in life, oftentimes both. It does not bring joy, but it keeps the memories fresh. He hoards them all like precious jewels, protecting each one from the dreamlike surroundings designed to dull his senses.
After one visit from a stranger quickly losing his strangeness, a green flash washes over the walls of his chamber. Dread instinctively fills Patroclus’ heart. He has heard about the telltale signs of Thanatos. Though he is said to be a nonviolent god, he is a god nonetheless. His gaze of a hawk tears through the room until it settles on him. He is unsettlingly beautiful with dark unsaturated skin, a quirk shared by Chthonic gods. They each blink, unsure what to make of one other. The massive scythe slinging at his shoulders had not been his demise, but a spear aided by Aries himself.
Finally the dreary god draws a hand to his mouth and clears his throat, obviously not expecting the company.
“Pardon. Have you seen a man with one red eye, about the same height as me?” He descends softly to the ground, slow enough not to disturb the fabrics draping his figure.
Patroclus considers whether or not he should answer honestly. There is no reason to lie, he decides. It is difficult to think much else under such a look. “He was here a while ago. I imagine he has found the champion by now if he has not returned home.”
This displeases him. His frown grows. “Theseus is second only to the gods themselves. If they met he is dead by now.” He did not seem to be addressing him, though the following silence hungers for response. Not wishing to contradict a god, he shrugs. “I hear he was trained by the best of the Myrmidons.”
A moment. The others head snaps towards him like puppetry. “You speak of Achilles.”
He nods, ignoring the swimming feeling in his gut. He has not heard that name aloud in quite a while. Thanatos spoke it like a melody he didn’t know.
“The same.”
“Then you are Patroclus.” Thanatos stares. “No one has called him that since he went to Tartarus.”
Something stronger twists inside him. Despite his placement in the lowest depths of Hades not being news, hearing it directly from a member of the house is far more concrete than a translucent spirit.
He does not belong there. For all his grievances, he seems to be the only one who noticed their places in the underworld had been swapped for what they should be. It was his glory which had given the Greeks the needed upper hand against the Trojans, while Patroclus had never gotten past nausea induced from seeing a corpse. “I do not understand what possessed your master to place him down there.” And I here.
“You do not know?” Thanatos looks as though he’d spoken something egregious. He fails to conceal his awe or simply does not think to. “It was by his request that you be given a place among heroes. He serves the house in exchange.”
If Patroclus needed breath, he surely would be short of it. In exchange…? How many decades has he wasted here, condemning his love for all the wrong reasons? It staggered him. Their separation was by Achilles’ choice. A white flash of rage strikes. What right does Achilles have to the privilege of selecting their fates without his say- or at the very least, knowing? Things are no different than they had been in life; Achilles making decisions for both of them while never thinking to ask Patroclus anything but forgiveness for it. Anger not felt for eons left him at a loss for words. Despite his woes, rage rarely came from them.
Thanatos frowns, realizing he has caused the other grief. “I don’t understand your frustration. I thought mortals found such gestures romantic.”
Patroclus turns to him, forgetting his reservations against speaking freely; “Then you do not know mortals very well.”
The god goes quiet, and for a moment Patroclus laments his mistake. Had he misstepped? Was he devising torture worse than the one he currently endures? Let him think, then. It will take a while.
“You’re right.” Thanatos glances to the door ahead of them both. “I don’t believe I do.”
Patroclus studies the others' expression so long as he dares. He does not seem to notice. When he looks back his face is sharp. “Zagreus has more in common with them than he does with us.” His words turn steel the longer he speaks, eyes dropping to the floor. “With me.”
Patroclus recognizes the pain in his voice all too well. Something beyond professional interest caused the god to shadow Hades’ son. Though Patroclus heard rumors, such speculations never piqued any interest. It did not change his circumstances here, who in the underworld yearned for who. Thanatos must be desperate, admitting this so freely.
“I often feared the same.” Patroclus says, ignoring the incredulous look sent his way. “Achilles... was always caught between the two, mortality and his promised godhood.”
“This is different. He will forget about me.” Thanatos looks back towards the door. “I cannot compete with the surface.”
He takes in the wistful sight of the other and feels an odd kinship. He may blame outside influence, but he is just as lost as I once was. The more he thinks about it, their situations almost oppose one another. One is trapped in place and the other cannot afford to stay put. Both bound to circumstances brought on by affection. A favored punishment by the fates, it seems.
“You cannot make him stay.” Not by lack of trying, from what he has heard. “If you respect your place in his life, you must trust he will not abandon that.”
Thanatos’ expression did not waver, unwilling to indicate a reaction. His predicament is not enviable. Asking a god to mediate between the agency of his beloved and his own desires was no simple request. Patroclus had the luxury of never needing to consider it. He followed Achilles to the ends of the earth, knowing he belonged nowhere else. He made mistakes but will never say Achilles was one of them. And now? If Achilles needed him, would he do it again?
“When did you know”--Thanatos starts with such unbridled intensity it’s almost childish--“what your place in his life was?”
Patroclus produces a sad smile. For all of his otherworldliness, the god of death is terribly transparent.
“Do you know of Thetis?” Occasionally she occupied his thoughts. Bound to her immortality in the oceans above, never to see her son again. She cared for Achilles when she knew how and as much as he allowed. He could not imagine her pain, losing such a child. Thanatos makes a noise of affirmation.
“She did not like how close Achilles and I were, so when he turned thirteen she sent him to Chiron.” He shares the story carefully, guarding details where he can. “It was beyond her understanding why a child of hers would see anything in an unremarkable mortal.”
Thanatos tilts his beautiful head in understanding, though Patroclus knows it truly as sympathy. Gods do not know the curse of plainness.
“So he left. She warned me not to follow. In her eyes, I could only damper his future greatness.” He fights the tiniest smirk, “thankfully I did not listen.” He details the sprint through the forests beneath Mount Pelion, running opposite from where he came quickly as his limbs outgrowing boyhood allowed. It had been incredibly foolish, looking back. He would never have survived alone more than a few days. Thankfully the thought never had time to cross his mind.
“I ran until I no longer could, which is when he found me. When I opened my eyes and saw his face, I knew.” The image is suddenly painted in his mind, the boyish smile hovering overhead, tumbling golden curls tickling his skin. Light filtered between the trees framing a halo around his face. He looked to Thanatos and saw wheels in his head turning.
“He waited for you.”
Patroclus nods, suddenly overwhelmed by his own recollection. The happy memories never come too close, for he does not let them. They are painful, though not as much as he imagined they would be. Their first kiss on his fathers’ beach, skipping stones on the island of Scyros, the rare moments of playfulness on the shores of Troy-- before the trickle can become a steady stream he turns back to Thanatos. He ought to bring him comfort, not the other way around.
“Zagreus is not like the gods you fear of losing him to.” In his short life he shared only moments with them, enough to see what was in their eyes. Neither Achilles or Zageus could dream of rivaling such callous cruelty. “If he is not careful, they will take advantage of this.”
He knows what the tomb of Achilles looks like. His legacy. The carvings of him show only the slaughter he committed out of grief. They omit his kindness, his infectious laughter, his capacity to love which led him there. Who knows what they had planned for a child of the underworld? Flush with the adrenaline of standing up to his father, the least liked of the Olympians. Did Zagreus realize this was not necessarily a bad thing? It is naiveté, to accept such gifts from the gods without realizing he would be expected to repay them somehow in turn. Yet again, Achilles surfaces in his mind.
It was not fair, the way his heart still lurched.
“I believe I understand what you are saying, Sir Patroclus.” Thanatos says curtly, sensing the conversation is drawing to a close. “I do not know how Achilles found himself such a level headed partner, but he was quite fortunate to do so.” If Patroclus didn’t know any better, he would say Thanatos spoke the man’s name with distaste. For the first time in centuries, he found himself wanting to talk about something new. What had Achilles done to offend such a pragmatic being…?
“I wish we could continue, but I run on a rather tight schedule.” He sounds genuinely apologetic, beginning to hover again. Right. A god. It felt a bit superfluous, but he didn’t harvest thousands of souls a day. He hesitates in midair for a moment, toes brushing iridescent grass. “Would you mind? If... I came back?”
Patroclus smiles. “I would not mind.” He means it. The daemon smiles back. Before the chamber is completely enveloped in his glow, he is gone.
For the first time in the afterlife, when Patroclus thinks of Achilles his smile remains. Yes, he decides. If Achilles needed me again, I would go to him. As many times as needed.