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A hero is the last thing Patroclus calls himself, and yet, here he is.
For fallen warriors and champions, none rest on their laurels here. Their spirits dash and dart around, seeking another battle to remember the adrenaline that once coursed through their veins. As for Patroclus, he’s mostly content with observing and speaking to no one.
Shades mingle and meander like a river’s flow, occasionally glancing in his direction. He stares back with a blank expression, and they disperse. They learn to leave him alone; it’s what he prefers. There’s the statue across his quiet corner of the glade, as well as the Lethe flowing behind him. It’s enough.
Why doesn’t he reside in Asphodel, or dare he ask, the lowest depths of Tartarus? The latter seems especially desirable; he can share the miseries of those shades, their fates more grim than glorious. Yet here he remains, an exile trapped among braggarts.
Achilles resides elsewhere. Shades murmur about his final moments, from a war’s swift end to the carnage that led to the result. If he is here, then he must be avoiding him for some undisclosed reason. They left on turbulent terms, the once-stable ground beneath them shaken from disagreements. If only he had truly listened, perhaps they would be together now...
Time flows endlessly in death. There’s time to relive mortal days of glory or time to rest, but Patroclus cannot rest. His mind wanders in wanderlust’s place, but there’s nowhere to go and nothing to find. He only wonders what he could’ve done to change Achilles’ heart. He sought laurels over love, and now he’s gone.
On this day (or evening, or whenever), he notices a sphere of pink in the distance. It hovers above the glowing grass, floating aimlessly across the glade. A moment passes, and smaller entities separate from the sphere. They flutter about in small clusters and disperse even further. Ah, butterflies. He would chase them during his youth and observe their vivid patterns against the morning light. He even expressed his delight toward Achilles when a butterfly landed upon his finger or shoulder - even his head.
They’re distant memories, now.
Several butterflies sense his melancholic presence and flutter toward him. He holds two fingers together like a perch and reaches forward. One butterfly lands briefly, but flies away to join its winged companions. The others swirl around Patroclus’ arms, but inevitably leave him alone. It seems that they, too, do not desire his company. He doesn’t blame them.
Patroclus lies down against the grass, needing a change of scenery. Even in death, the thoughts never cease. He wanted to watch the sunsets with him, whisper sweet nothings to him, and grow old with him.
Now? Nothing.
He closes his eyes. Even in death, there is pain.
“Hello again, sir.”
The same stranger visits again. And again. Each time, he dashes back and forth, shattering urns and disturbing the peace. He even poses in victory as a fish dangles from his fishing line. The frequent visits compel Patroclus to consider a new moniker. ‘Stranger’ suffices, even though he’s aware of his true name. Names, especially his own, are to be forgotten, yet Patroclus does not forget this one. For the son of Hades, notorious king of the underworld, he treats him with utmost respect. Gods are not known for kindness; this one is almost unnerving.
Still, the eagerness to repeatedly defy the gods earn a modicum of praise. If only he harbored such determination to do the same...
“In the midst of your escapades, stranger? You best choose wisely, then, and leave me be.”
His wares are spoils of the exalted who seek to prove their might through eternal combat. Patroclus holds no use for such strength, though if they can help the stranger reach his goals, then he’ll pass the wares along. On this occasion, he chooses the dried meats, their sources unknown to the sullen benefactor.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” the stranger asks.
Ah… a simple question bears too many feelings. He has never been all right. Mornings, evenings, however time flows in this realm - they matter little to Patroclus. They only serve to remind him that he is, in fact, alone, waiting for one who shall never come. There is little comfort among the lush greens of Elysium without the other half of his heart and soul.
“I am.”
Hint taken, he makes his leave, feet singeing the grass beneath.
Patroclus spins the lies to ward off the stranger, polite as he seems. His mismatched eyes shine with the curiosity of youth, eager and determined. For a moment, he sees something familiar in his demeanor, but shrugs off the thought. A mere trick upon the mind, Patroclus tells himself.
Over time, said stranger is no longer so strange. He shares his kind words, accepts his offerings with humility, and even thanks him in return. A mere shade like himself deserves nothing, let alone cherished nectar, but the stranger insists. When he leaves, Patroclus lets out a breath each time. At least he may drown his sorrows with a drink or two.
In his mortal days, he welcomed the stillness of peace, where they fought no wars, brandished no weapons. He would... they would lie together, watching the stars glimmer above. They would trace patterns in the sky with their fingers, whisper sweet nothings, and contemplate a future together.
Ha. Together.
The fool. He sought recognition from the faceless, fame from those who he shall never know. Did their love truly matter when he chose to abandon it for glory? Sweet nothings become nothing, in the end.
When the thoughts grow too much to bear, he contemplates cupping a hand into the Lethe and drinking its contents. He can free himself from the pain and allow it to flow away with the river. It seems so simple.
And yet, he cannot. Despite everything, Patroclus holds onto the memories, as if the gods may actually bestow a blessing upon his brooding self. He almost laughs at the thought, fixing his gaze toward the misty river.
Nectar offers no respite, and he lies to himself no longer. He misses him with all his heart.
Eventually, the loneliness bears a heavy burden upon his shoulders. Desperate to know more, Patroclus inquires of Achilles’ well-being. Surely, the house of Hades contains records of the departed.
“I’ll get back to you on that.”
True to his word, the stranger returns with news. It turns out that he’s acquainted with Achilles beyond rolled parchment in a cluttered chamber. For some untold reason, the king of the underworld employs him, and he’s forced to serve. Meddling even in death… is this a mere game to the gods? And a king, no less. Patroclus doesn’t want to think about that time.
The stranger ends their visit with words from Achilles.
“He wanted me to send his regards, sir... and all his love. He thinks of you always.”
Tsk. He professes this in death when they could’ve lived in peace. Ah, but there’s no use rebuking the messenger. Surely, he has heard enough of his woes, yet he always returns with a listening ear and a kind heart.
“...Thank you for telling me. Be careful out there.”
“I’ll try,” he offers a reassuring smile. “Do take care.”
Not all gods are terrible, it seems.
The stranger appears again with a peculiar weapon (and shattered urns in his wake). The spear gleams with a familiar gold, and Patroclus cannot mistake its origin.
“You wield the spear of Achilles, stranger.”
Brief and direct. He waits for a response, which comes filled with pride.
“Indeed, sir. He taught me how to fight, after all.”
Oh? Was teaching a part of his servitude? In the art of war, Achilles was destined for greatness, heroic to some and heinous to others. Which aspects did this stranger learn?
“If you’re up to it, you’re welcome to watch me in battle. Bet my coin that Theseus is eager to see me.”
Ah, the champion himself, whose greatest talent lies in ceaseless blathering. Surely, there are far better shades to uphold the title. Patroclus harbors no disdain toward his minotaur companion, though he wonders how he tolerates the braggart. Should it lead to temporary relief from his presence, however, it’s not a terrible suggestion.
“I shall consider your offer, though I promise nothing.”
“Works for me, sir. Take care, all right?”
The stranger murmurs something about a good shade as he exits the chamber. Patroclus lets out another sigh, drawn-out and weary. He is alone again, with only the company of the statue across from him. Stiff, stagnant... it’s just as he feels.
Thoughts of the spear occupy his mind, and he wills himself to stand. If he was still mortal, his muscles would certainly cramp from disuse. Yet, there is nothing. His mind floats elsewhere as his body moves across the glade, past the chamber doors, and beyond.
Patroclus never ventures to the stadium, where souls of heroes relive their glory days. He cares little for such frivolous antics; there’s no glory to win here. While these shades associate fighting with pride, he associates it with pain.
Still, the stadium offers respite from the melancholy of his days, evenings, however the time passes. He says nothing and seats himself in the furthest row from the battle grounds. To his dismay, the champion is unchanging. Loud and abrasive, only his minotaur companion tempers his unnecessary boasting. That, and the stranger who confronts them each time.
Steel against steel, flashes of spears, cheers abound. The Bull of Minos falls, and the crowd’s excitement swells. Patroclus is unaccustomed to such noise, and he almost stands up to leave. But the battle rages on, and the gods intervene. Theseus calls upon Lady Aphrodite, while the stranger fights with bloodlust much unlike his friendly self. Coupled with the way he wields his spear, the battle brings forth memories. Love against war, love against war…
In the end, Achilles chose the latter. Now, a remnant of his former self fights love, once more.
The shades erupt with applause when Theseus falls, and Patroclus swears he can see that spear pulsing in his hands. It’s short-lived, for he waves toward the aforementioned ‘good shade’ and goes about his business.
If Patroclus’ heart could beat, he imagines that something stirs within. There’s no mistaking that style of combat, from his stance to his speed.
The stranger becomes the only welcome face in this unwelcome realm.
“How goes the mischief?”
The visits remain the only predictable aspects of him. As for the events prior to their meeting, Patroclus learns something new each time.
“Well, I broke into my father’s bedchambers earlier, and what did I find? Capes! Nothing but capes! Can you believe it?”
If he’s trying to lift his spirits, then it’s working. Patroclus huffs in amusement, inwardly praising such boldness. Fighting past his father each time is one act, but rifling through his personal chambers? May he continue his mischief, then.
“You said he burned away his cape every time?”
“Every time!”
The stranger shares his personal affairs willingly, offers nectar, and acts as messenger with no expectations. All he wishes is that he may take care of himself to the best of his ability.
Patroclus deserves no such kindness, and he starts to think that the Fates spin a different tale than tragedy. Within the remains of a hollow heart, a feeling stirs. It yearns, raw and true. This time, Patroclus does not squander it.
“If I may request something, stranger.”
“Anything, sir,” he responds, friendly as always. It reassures him.
Out with it, then.
“By now, you must know how I feel about my Achilles. At this point, I believe we have little to lose. When you see him next… tell him he must risk it all.”
“Risk it all?” the stranger raises a brow. “Risk what all?”
A hum. “He will understand, and maybe he will listen, this time. Now, go.”
There’s a certainty to his voice that prompts no further inquiry. The stranger simply makes the promise and leaves. It’s quiet again.
Should nothing occur, he will simply remain here. As much as he scolds him for his foolishness, he hopes Achilles will take the chance. Fear is for the weak, is it not?
All he can do is wait. He has been waiting for a long time.
Patroclus tries to coax a lone butterfly to perch upon his fingers. It flutters away, tiny wings silent amidst the glade. Footsteps sound in the distance, and he turns around to face the stranger.
“Ah, it’s-”
Not him.
Oh.
Steps halt, and stares ensue. Those green eyes appear to glow against the light of this realm. They’re unmistakeable, unyielding. Patroclus says nothing.
Do the Fates mock him again? Why? How? And how dare? Does he not suffer enough? Why must they-
Ah, but he remembers his request. One cannot accomplish anything without risk, after all. That stranger has always honored his word - perhaps this is no exception. Is it truly...
“Achilles?”
He looks into his eyes and sees the pain, remorse, guilt. So, he understands that he’s a fool. As he should.
“Patroclus, I…”
Despite his foolish pride, his stubbornness, and his poor decisions, he’s not angry at him. He can never be angry, nor does he know how to be.
Achilles may be a fool, but he’s his fool.
“Come here,” Patroclus beckons him forward.
Achilles steps closer, drops to his knees, leans into his embrace. There’s a moment of hesitation, and Patroclus wonders if this is another cruel trick. Perhaps this shade is an imposter, or some figment of his imagination.
It’s not. He holds him close, feels Achilles tremble, and hears him murmur apology after broken apology.
“I am sorry, so sorry…”
Patroclus needs no words. He holds him closer, so close. From the curve of his back to the softness of his hair, there’s no mistaking him. He knows him by heart, by soul.
“...I missed you, my love.”
A sniff.
“I missed you, too.”
Glancing up, Patroclus notices a familiar figure peer from behind the statue. There’s a smile on his face, as well as quiet pride in his demeanor. A hand forms into a fist, and he holds it in the air. The past Patroclus would wonder if he’d merely caught another charp from the river, but no. Here and now, the sign of victory is for him.
He regards Zagreus with a silent “thank you”. Thanks for the kindness, generosity, so many thanks to give. Patroclus can welcome an endless flow of time, so long as he may spend it with his beloved.
It’s the only time Zagreus leaves him alone, though he’s not alone anymore. The sound of footsteps grows faint, the chamber door shuts, and it’s just the two of them.
When he pulls aways, he feels Achilles brush away the tears with his thumb. Even in his sadness, he has never shed tears until now. There’s no embarrassment, of course, for he can express his emotions without fear or judgment. He hopes that Achilles may feel the same, past grievances aside.
For now, he leans against Achilles’ gentle touch and closes his eyes. His hand feels softer than before, clean from the bloodshed of their mortal days. Achilles gestures toward the grass and starts to lie down. Patroclus follows suit, resting his head upon his chest. Fingers gently comb through his hair, and he sighs in content.
“Rest, Pat. It’s all right, I’m here.”
There’s a smile on his face, and he just… is.
They just… are.
Elysium is quite beautiful, truly. An ethereal mist hovers over the Lethe, adding a certain ambience to this realm. The flora glimmers like stars against the ground, and the green light no longer irritates Patroclus like before. Wandering shades pass, and whatever words he hears mention a change in his demeanor, even a smile.
Footsteps approach without the hiss of flame against grass. They’re another welcome presence in this glade.
“Ah, you are here.”
“That, I am. And with a gift,” Achilles retrieves a bottle from beneath his cloak. He seats himself upon the grass, and Patroclus notes the vivid orange hue of its contents.
“The lad asked that I share this with you. After all he has done for us… who would I be, if not to honor his request?”
A fair assessment. Zagreus always keeps his word, so his Achilles must return the favor. He shall repay him in due time, though he’s content with calling him ‘stranger’ anyway. Fortunately, said stranger considers it a term of endearment. He reminds Patroclus that some gods harbor kindness. He hopes he may protect it.
Onto more important matters, however.
“Is that so?” Patroclus smirks and withdraws his own bottle of ambrosia. “He shared the same sentiments with me.”
Achilles laughs. In his mortal days, Patroclus’ heart would flutter at the sound. It flutters now.
“A contest, then?”
The mood shifts.
“Come now, Pat. Something like ambrosia must be savored to the fullest.”
“You say this because you know I shall win.”
“Ah, well, when you put it in those terms-”
Patroclus anticipates his movements. Achilles may be fleet-footed, but regarding the matter of drinks, he cannot say the same. In all his brooding, the warrior’s pride remained dormant in his heart. Now, it comes forth as he tosses the glass top some distance away. It collides with the top of Achilles’ bottle.
The impromptu contest ends with no clear winner, yet they share their laughter and joy. Just like the old days. However the time flows here, he has all the time to make new memories of peace, memories of love over war.
Perhaps the Fates can be kind, after all.