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the nymphs wash that other part of me. the part I can no longer reach.
Patroclus wouldn’t like to see them touching my hands like that — but Patroclus is not here.
they put dead flowers all over my body and weep. they hum sea melodies to guide my soul to its right place. I hear their song inside me, but there’s no motion. no vibration inside my ears, no rush of blood to my heart. death is still. my hands, as numb as the rest of me, can no longer hold nothing. no more spears or swords. and, worse, no more lyre. they smear their oils on my dead skin and I feel nothing.
as far as my death was certain, it was never on my mind. there was no use thinking about it. death is but the moment when heroes become immortal. songs and tales, the stuff of the legends. we are movement personified and death is the end of all movement. a hero’s sword can’t be tainted with the imminence of death — no, we must dare. and to dare is to forget death.
they’ll say it was the arrow. the god’s blessing, the perfect angle towards the hero’s fate. no, death found me because I remembered it. they’ll say it was paris, his bow, his vengeance, his will, his well trained arms and hands and fingers. no, paris didn’t kill me — hector did. now I’m dead, my song is theirs to sing.
our story is theirs to tell.
the nymphs are slow. I want to urge them. burn my body, end this mess. bring me close to him again . but my voice is far away from them. a thick veil stands still between us — no wind could ever move it. the dead can see but cannot reach the living. was this how Patroclus felt, as I kept his dead body unburnt by my side? could he see me in my agony? did he long for me as I did for him? even in death, I notice, his fear remains with me, not even death could kill it.
as they finally tend to the fire, I get a good look at my face. it seems calm, the hint of a smile still there. the face of a man who thought himself free.
not yet — but soon. wait for me.
mother watches it from afar. when I lived, she shone like the ocean in the earliest hour of the day, my skin but a mirror to her light. now my dead eyes can only capture a blurred image of her. blunt, colorless. after they burn me, she will never reach me again. a goddess, unable to walk below the earth.
as the fire reaches the sky, I say my silent goodbyes. mother never looks my way.
before, I pictured myself like her. ichor flowing in my veins, thick and divine. time unfolding itself before me, its pace unyielding, constant, unceasing. but I’m nothing like my mother. my life and my few years mean nothing to her. her flesh is immortal and eternal — I’m ash.
I’m ash, I’m air, I’m thought. I’m tired. I’ve been away from him for so long. no body, no chest, no skin left, and yet it hurts.
they collect what is left of my body. take me to him.
they hold my ashes above what is left of his.
I remember his cheeks, his lips. his eyes when I said his name. I remember his arms, the soft curve of his shoulders, his beautiful neck, all of it gone, ash, dead. but not his soul. his soul waits for mine. I know it.
they pour my ashes on his and I feel nothing.
time staggers on.
the dark was not unknown to me. we always met in the dark, after the world was asleep, before it woke. but there was word and voice, there was noise.
this world feels soundless without him.
so I wander.
I reach the ends of the underworld trying to find him. death brings me everything life did not — I am always tired, always restless, always alone. and Patroclus is nowhere to be found.
the dead are silent. I watch the other come close to me and move away, empty as I am.
the underworld is nothing to me. there is no light here.
sleep never finds my way — his brother does.
I’m waiting.
my existence is waiting.
the years I lived are nothing. here, under, I’m old. like a god, I can’t change.
like a god, I can’t move.
maybe mother did something wrong to him.
maybe mother did something divine to him.
no blood, no ichor, just ash.
here, under, there’s nothing brown like his eyes.
come back to me. come back to me. come back to me.
I pray into the rocks.
Patroclus never listens.
odysseus calls
he asks
would you rather be in the world of the living?
yes.
do you regret your choice?
I do.
would you rather be a nobody?
I would rather be anything.
I don’t ask him about Patroclus.
he leaves. I fall again.
I never thought I’d miss my mother.
no ichor, no blood.
just ash.
the dead are silent, but some are not. others come to me, they ask me about my life.
I don't know where he is.
they leave.
time.
I flow through its folds. time is useless here.
I forget numbers, the shape of the clouds, I forget the sound of living rivers.
I forget the taste of blood, I forget fighting.
memory flees. mnemosyne forsakes me.
I forget everything
everything but
the dead are silent
yet
I swear I hear his voice
Achilles, Achilles, Achilles, Achilles
a faint sound
my name
rolling on dead lips
but they never call me by my name
they just call me hero
I walk
come to me. come to me. come to me, my love.
half of my soul, half of my heart.
find me. come to me. find me.
Achilles, he says, Achilles, Achilles
when his fingers touch mine I become a sun
I kiss his cheeks, his temples, his hair, his eyes, his nose, his mouth.
I am not flesh but I am. I am. I am.
warm and close so close I am flesh again
Patroclus, I say. finally.
I hold him. my love holds me back.
no tears left in me but I weep
he weeps with me
half of my soul, half of my heart
you're here
"In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands
meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of
the sun."