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He remembers not what happened after the final conversation with Thetis. He floats, drifting, everything foggy and unclear as he simply exists. He cannot remember if he was thinking, if he were truly present, or if he was but a shade of who he was before. All he knew was that he was Patroclus.
Pa-tro-clus. Words unrushed and spoken clearly in a warm, honey-gold voice.
He first feels a breeze and hears a strange noise, not unlike a river. He feels cool grass on his bare feet, and he is able to discern what he is looking at.
The Isle of the Blessed. Elysium. He remembers figs and a river of golden locks. He remembers chaste kisses and shared beds that smelled of sandalwood and pomegranate. The sweet notes borne of his mother’s gilded lyre and the cacophony of laughs from places where nobody can see.
He thinks of aristo achaion. Peleides. Son of the Nereid Thetis.
His Achilles.
He thinks of Thetis’ words in their shared tombs.
He waits for you.
Patroclus searches and searches and searches, never resting. There was no weariness in Elysium, nothing to drag him down, no physical exhaustion. The only thing that drove him forward was his search, scouring every nook and cranny of this placid afterlife. He knows not how long he has searched, going from isle to isle, breezing from shade to shade in his pursuit. None of them, not one, was his Achilles.
He fears of a deception of Thetis’ making; a final spit on Patroclus’ pride and heart by the goddess, but he knows it not to be true. As much as he would love to believe it, he knew Thetis would not lie about this, could not bring herself to, not when it was Achilles. Not when she imparted on Patroclus the gift of a shared afterlife. She knew not that Achilles would be nowhere to be found. She, for all her power, could not walk upon the lush grasses of Elysium, nor the fiery meadows of Asphodel, nor the echoing caverns of Tartarus.
All she would have left would be a stone monument and silence.
He fears that he would not be able to distinguish Achilles amongst the litany of shades in Elysium but he, also, knew that not to be true. Patroclus would know him blind and by touch and smell alone. He would know him in life and in death. Achilles was not here, and though Patroclus knew he would do his best to chase after the other man, he realized that he may not be able to catch up to him.
He wonders if his Achilles would be so cruel as to leave him behind.
The longer he searches, the more he cannot dissuade the disheartening thought.
He knows not how long he searched, only knew that he had become weary, an exhaustion that was not anything physical as he lacks a corporeal form, but of his heart. He hears the plucking of a lyre, but it is all wrong. Everything was wrong and Achilles was not here in Elysium with him.
He lies down in a secluded glade, staring out into the rolling of the Lethe, and dreams of a similar glade in the heights of Mount Pelion. His tears join the streams of oblivion and he wishes for the familiar comfort of Briseis’ voice, Chiron’s hand, or Achilles’ warmth.
He thinks and thinks and thinks and dreams and dreams and dreams of this and this and this. He makes a home for himself, on the banks of the Lethe and in this little glade of his, always waiting for the gate leading to beyond his little islet to swing open, and there stand his Achilles.
He wonders how many lifetimes Achilles had to wait for him. He wonders if Neoptolemus, cruel and poor Pyrrhus that was so different from his Achilles and was so very cold, was here in Elysium. He might have seen him, but he never paid much mind, always searching for his love. He wonders how many lifetimes must he wait for Achilles. He waits, knowing that the everchanging chambers of Elysium are a puzzle for everyone to prevent escape.
Patroclus waits, but the gate never opens.
He remains in the company of unnamed shades that stay for the beauty of his glade. He talks to nobody and does not indulge in the festivities of the fallen soldiers. He watches and he lives without breathing. He feels empty, missing a piece of himself that he had no hope of ever seeing again. He is unmade, left un-whole, without his Achilles.
He is cast in the blues and greens and shine of the glowing crystals that gave off the artificial light of his eternal home. He wonders, do people know who he is? Will he receive his own verses? What thought will his name incur? Will they see him as a hero? Will they know of his healing abilities? Or will they know him by the blood which he had spilt on the soft earth of Troy? He wonders if Chiron will hear those great tales, of his killing of those soldiers and Sarpedon. He fears what the centaur, the being that was most like a father to him, would think. He wonders how Chiron, in his lonely existence at the peak of Mount Pelion would feel, knowing that once again the children he raised and taught the beauty of medicine and arts to, have stained they’re blood red and died in much the same way they killed others.
Patroclus was not a warrior. His hands, though stained with blood far before they joined the battlefield with Achilles, were not made for fighting. Patroclus was not an Achilles, never will be an Achilles. His hands were made for healing and Chiron knew it to be so, regardless of if they could wield a weapon.
Chironides, he had proclaimed himself. Son of Chiron. He hoped and prayed to gods that had once failed him that Chiron did not think of him and feel disappointment.
He hopes nobody sings of Patroclus, hails him as a hero. He never wanted to be a hero.
They never let you be famous and happy. I’ll tell you a secret…
Patroclus closes his eyes and his hand dips into the cool stream of the Lethe.
I’m going to be the first.
Patroclus cannot name one hero who was happy.
The Lethe is his forever companion. He cannot see anything in the milky white of its waters— a small comfort, for he wished not to see himself, frightened for what he would see. It is he and the swirling of water, alone, in their glade, but oh how he hated it. He despised the siren call of its rushing waters, the promise of a brief respite from the theater of revolving plays in his head of his life when he was flesh and blood.
It would be so easy to dip his hands, cup them and bring the water to his lips, as he had once done with a fig that had been tossed to him by his very soul. He can almost imagine the taste of the fig, can almost feel as the skin split against his teeth and the sweet juices passed through his throat.
The Lethe does not taste of anything Patroclus has ever ingested. It tastes like what he would imagine a memory would taste of and is heavy, yet airy, as it slides down his throat. It swirls in the pit of his stomach, broiling as if Charybdis resided there. His heart feels hollow and he feels the tears stream down his face.
In Lethe’s lake, they long oblivion taste…
He still remembers curls spun of gold and burning eyes of emerald that looked upon him with love. He still remembers and he wonders what he has forgotten, what he could not recall. He just knows all he knows and the last thing he knows is his death at the hands of Hector, staring up and the final thought of Achilles.
He stares into the Lethe for so long he feels as if there were something reaching out to him, calling for him to remember.
“Remember what?” cries Patroclus, hands reaching for the crumbling banks of the Lethe, scared of what he has forgotten and the ghost of whatever memory he has discarded dragging him into the opaque depths. “What will you have me remember? What phantoms will you ask me to honor?”
The Lethe remains silent, carrying whatever he had seen away from him. Out of mind and certainly out of sight.
Patroclus mourns for what he cannot remember but does not touch the Lethe for what feels like eons, finds himself with an emptiness in his chest that restricted his lungs that he cannot change. He mourns that he will do this, drink from oblivion once again soon.
He cannot change. He knows this.
He waits for Achilles, though his heart knows Achilles will never come to him. He knows Achilles loved him, deep in his heart and in the memories that he visits in the cavern of his mind. Achilles, beautiful Achilles, that took risks, that was so breathtaking and a good man.
He remembers his pride, his stubbornness, and how he refused to fight. How he did not take it to himself to risk it all and fight for them all, fight for Briseis.
For the first time since he died, Patroclus laughs and laughs, for he knows Achilles will never face him. He has his pride and will never put it aside, even for his Patroclus.
He realizes, then, what the Lethe tasted of.
Heartbreak and the bitterness of an unripe pomegranate. Nothing like the taste of a fig.
He plays with long blades of grass, the task of weaving almost therapeutic and liberating. Under and over and a simple tug. Repeat. He’s gotten good at it, could probably go by trying with something more sturdy than the grass. Maybe reeds could be agreeable? He considers making himself a basket of some sort, despite his most definitely questionable skills in weaving.
Warm-toned fingers deftly weaving a basket, a bright smile and dark strands of hair being tucked behind ears. Slightly accented Greek and the feeling of friendship and trust. The same fingers adorned with jewels, in a tent that was not the one she had known during her stay with Achilles and him. A plead gracing lips that used to tell stories of her country and of the flora of the region.
He remembers Briseis speeding through, making a simple basket so that the herbs they collected could be held. He puts down the grass, suddenly losing his motivation.
He wonders what became of Briseis. What happened to her? Did she have to live the rest of her life with Agamemnon? Bejeweled, but never free. He swallows, feeling remorse for having left her behind. Having left Achilles behind.
It is a pearl that has grown in his heart, starting from the grain of salt that was the resignation of Achilles having left him alone and behind, and now he polishes it, taking care of his broken heart with bitterness and hurt that he couldn’t recall feeling in his mortal life. When Patroclus left Achilles first, he did not mean for it to happen. Achilles, however, did not have such an excuse. How long had Patroclus been here? How long had Achilles been here? Patroclus searched and searched, to no avail. Once again, Achilles left him. At least this time Patroclus would not die.
He did not blame Achilles for his death; however, he could not forgive him for not fighting.
The gate opens, but Patroclus does not look up. He hears the breaking of pottery and a strange sizzling sound. His mind goes to the rumors that had been floating about Elysium. A young man on a warpath, fighting shades that Hades had established as security. He lets out a breath as the sounds come in closer proximity to him. He keeps his eyes closed, barely acknowledging the figure in front of him.
“Go on stranger. Plenty more shades looking to fight with you out here.”
It would be an eternity too soon for Patroclus to even entertain the idea of wielding a spear, much less fight. His heart has grown too weary, and his hands have been stained with far too much blood. He wishes not to destroy again.
He can hear the hesitance in the other’s silence before he clears his throat. “I’m just passing through,” said the voice. Patroclus hums in response. Another silence, and he can hear the cogs in the other’s mind working. “You seem less warlike than the rest.”
Patroclus finally opens his eyes and sees feet of fire burning into the soft grass. His gaze flicks to the face of the man, distantly noting that the man—he gave more of a boyish charm, if Patroclus were to be honest—had one eye of burning ember and one that was a green that seemed to shine in the unearthly light. Emerald, bright and filled with life, just like…
“May I ask your name?” asks the younger, “I’m Zagreus.”
Patroclus briefly entertains the idea of disclosing his name to the youth, slightly to be respectful and slightly out of morbid curiosity to see Zagreus’ reaction. He decides, then, he cares not to know. The young god, for no mortal, not even those of divine blood, had features like him, did not need to know Patroclus’ name.
“Names are there to be forgotten, stranger.” He watches as Zagreus’ nose crinkles at the word. Patroclus distantly feels amused. “You shouldn’t be here. May the Fates favor your journey. But just in case they don’t, here.” Patroclus reaches into his tunic and pulls out some vials he had found strewn about, and hands it to the lad. “Why don’t you take this?”
The other gives his thanks and Patroclus lies near the Lethe.
Zagreus becomes a common presence in his little glade, arriving in a cacophony of broken pots and hissing feet and the smell of burning grass. Despite it all, he carries a grin. It matters not if he’s dripping blood all over the greens and blues of Elysium and staining the marble steps as he walks towards Patroclus. Zagreus shines in the same way the gems shine. It is not too different from how Achilles once stood, but Patroclus tries not to dwell on him. It is a hard task, considering Zagreus knows Achilles and knows the Patroclus that only lives in Achilles' memories.
Achilles is not in Elysium—oh he knew it—but to have him not to come to him, not send a sign that he is here? It fills Patroclus with hopelessness and a pang of deep sadness that he was under the impression he had let drift away from him through the Lethe.
Patroclus listens to the young god as he speaks of Achilles with stars in his eyes, glittering like jewels. It is a sweet thing, to be regarded as such, and Patroclus is not blind to see the same look come into Zagreus’ eyes as the other enters the glade and all but runs to him, ready to hear anything that Patroclus is willing to share, desperate to grasp at any hint of what the overworld is like. Patroclus indulges him, lets the other ask him questions, and though it all leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, he answers him. He cannot restrain the bitterness from leaking into his words most of the time, finds it so easy to speak all that has been trapped in his heart with his tongue loosened with nectar and ambrosia.
Zagreus arrives with message after message from Achilles, ever dutiful in relaying them. If Patroclus did not know him, he would think Zagreus was attempting to get something out of them. He knows, however, that Zagreus does this out of the love in his heart, a love that runs red hot like his blood and could give the Styx a run for its money. It is the same reason as to why he continues in his journey, regardless of how many times he falls. He runs and runs, hands reaching up like shoots of plants, yearning for the warmth brought by Apollo’s chariot. The cavern of his rib cage is too small to carry a burden as heavy as love is and he yearns to feel it in return. He will die again and again in search of his mother, to perhaps find love in her embrace and smile. He will not stop. Patroclus understands this.
A child in want of love will do anything to achieve it, even if it means dying thousands of times just to receive it.
He has taken to talking to the Lethe, as pathetic as it seemed. There was no pride left to have, he finds. In death, there is only the fact that he is alone. He speaks his woes into the rushing waters, and they carry his words away, along with the memories he had given it.
Figs do not grow in Lord Hades' domain. The conditions make it nigh impossible for the fruit to bear itself upon trees, but the pomegranate thrives. Patroclus does not thrive on the banks of the Lethe.
Patroclus felt himself pause, his breath stalling in his lungs as Zagreus’ words sunk in.
“…Our ashes, you say…” says Patroclus, his voice sounding foreign to his ears. “Together?” It was as if Zagreus were far away, now, underneath the sea and Patroclus could grasp heads nor tails of what he had said. His head throbs as he tries to recall the tug at his memory. Nothing resurfaces, all he is left with is a haze similar to Lethe’s white stream, washing away any familiarity. His heart aches, but he knows not for what it yearns for.
He did not forget me.
Patroclus clicks his tongue, dismissing Zagreus’ words and the brief flicker of hope that sparked in his fractured heart: “The fool… We could have lived, not been reduced to meal for worms.” In the end, that was something he could barely find himself to forgive Achilles of. As the young prince had said, Achilles almost singlehandedly won the war.
Achilles did not leave me behind, at the very end.
“But…” He wanted us to be together in death, forevermore. “I appreciate the information, stranger.”
The boy stares at him, accepts the small offerings Patroclus presents him in minutely shaking hands. He opens his mouth, almost as if to speak once again and Patroclus feels terror for what else could come out of Zagreus’ mouth, but the other decides better. He gives him a smile, a brilliant one but one that was so achingly familiar it took his breath away. It was a sweet smile but one laced with guilt.
Zagreus leaves the glade and Patroclus tugs at the long shoots of grass, the cool mist that rolled off the clouds of the Lethe swirling along the current and kissing Patroclus’ skin. He reaches out, hands extended, and he feels the cold stream of the Lethe running through his fingers. He grasps nothing, trying to catch the water of the Lethe as if he were trying to collect rays of sunshine. He feels cold and, not for the first time, he is reminded of how alone he is.
He wonders when he became so bitter. He thinks of his life and he feels anguish, feels a pain that was never there in his life. He wonders if Achilles would even be able to recognize him in this state, if his anger would not let Achilles realize it was him that stood before him. Achilles had once said he would recognize his love even if he had gone mad, but what if his love was the one that had gone mad?
Patroclus does not know if he has gone mad. He just knows that his heart burns and he is so exhausted of this paradise with no purpose. He does nothing and is nothing in this place. He does the minimum to help one person and wallows in his resentful sorrows. When he still walked the earth, he would have tended to Zagreus’ wounds, would have expressed something more than simple apathy. Were he still mortal, he would be different, but death has poisoned him and so has his lack of mortality. He is no longer human; he is merely a shade of who he had once been. Patroclus is tired of being the meek one, he is tired of playing the role of Cleopatra, tired of having to be the one to beg.
After countless lifetimes of being alone, how could he ever be the same person?
He can never be the same Patroclus that had stood by Achilles' side. The same Patroclus that had laid entwined with Achilles and who had once held slender and petal-veined hands, falsely believing that they would never be wrong.
The Patroclus he had once been was slain by Hector and by Patroclus’ solitude on the banks of the Lethe.
He apologizes to Zagreus for his behavior. It is not his fault to bring such news. Patroclus was never one to begrudge messengers and the smile Zagreus had given him left him with little rest. His thoughts are plagued by Achilles, as they have always been, despite his attempts to forget the other. Everything was too… new. This idea that Achilles had tried to ensure their reunion in the afterlife and how, according to Zagreus, Achilles still cares for him. In his solitude, his grief and the Lethe has poisoned the memory of Achilles. He stares at his companion, letting his feet dip into the water, feeling as the clouds curl against his ankles. Zagreus smiles in understanding, the same smile from their last meeting sans the guilt. It suits the lad better.
“No need to even ask forgiveness, sir. Achilles is one of my closest friends, but…” he smiles, only to falter, the smile wavering, eyes uncertain as they peer at Patroclus. Patroclus gives him a slight nod, allowing the lad to continue. “He doesn’t care to talk about himself… About those times. It must be very painful… For the both of you.”
His voice was twined with a tone of worry and Patroclus smiles wistfully into the water. The lad truly has such a warm heart. Patroclus is suddenly hit with the memory of Automedon, his face murky and almost far away. He thinks of the boyish look on Automedon’s face as he sat around their campfire, listening to Briseis tell folk tales of Troy, how his brow scrunched when he ate something bitter, and his look of adoration as he held one of the babes of the other women. Patroclus remembers Automedon’s worry in his final minutes as Hector rushes them. Zagreus looks nothing like Automedon, but he brings forth the memory of him and it makes Patroclus steel himself in his decision.
“Oh, we’ve all seen our share of pain, by now.” He thinks of Phoinix and Automedon. He thinks of Thetis. He thinks of Chiron and of Briseis. The ghosts that haunt him, along with the memory of Achilles who is so close, yet so far. Still stubborn, even in death. “But… knowing that he cared for me in the end… after the end… it dulls the feeling of it, for a bit.” He finally turns to the boy and gives him a soft smile, not unlike the one he reserved for the ones he loved and teases him, just a little. “As do these conversations, I guess.”
The smile Zagreus gives him could give even Achilles a run for his money. He truly is Achilles’ student. Patroclus can almost imagine sharing a fire with Zagreus.
Briseis would have adored him.
Zagreus leaves, a new spring on his step, rushing to go to his mother once again, leaving Patroclus to his thoughts. He wonders what became of Automedon. He hopes he lives here in Elysium. He hopes all the Myrmidons have found their peace here. They are melancholic thoughts, though Patroclus does not find himself disheartened and broken over his pondering.
He thinks of possibilities and not the past. He thinks of what could be and not what could have been. He thinks of Cleopatra and Meleager. Her name was built from the same pieces of his, only reversed. He does not plan to be Cleopatra again.
Achilles will never see him beg as such ever again.
Patroclus turns his back on the Lethe.
For the first time in millennia, Patroclus smiles as his head rests on the soft grass.
"I’ve meant to ask you something, stranger. Would you mind doing me a favor, please? If it happens to come up along your path. Suppose I ought to tell you first, prior to asking a response.”
“No, of course, sir. What is it? What’s on your mind?”
“If I know my Achilles, then he’s being rather guarded when it comes to this predicament we’re in. How can somebody be so brash yet hate to take unnecessary risks?”
“…Sir?”
“Just… let him know I said to risk it all.”
“Risk it all? Risk what all? He wants what’s best for you. He wouldn’t want anything to happen.”
A humorless laugh. “It’s already long since happened. I daresay that, right now, provided what you’ve said is true, then… it appears we’ve more to gain than lose.
“Isn’t fear for the weak?”
He waits, this time not burdened by solitude. He sits, facing away from the gate. Zagreus has not returned since their last conversation. He remains at the bank, the same place where he had stayed all those years. He knows not how long ago it has been, he just knows this is where he will see Achilles, where they will be reunited.
He is half of my soul, as the poets say.
He remembers nothing of what the Lethe has taken from him. He dreams of what he has lost, but he moves it aside. Despite the missing memories, he is made of them. Patroclus has always been the memories he holds. He will not let what he’s lost be what he fears. He will continue forward.
He hears the gate creak open and hears footsteps approach, hesitant yet hurried. He has heard them, more surefooted, on all types of floor and earth. He has heard them echoing on cobblestone as they played, running on the creaking, unstable wood of a ship, heard them walking on the damp sand.
His heart twists as those footsteps approach and he can feel the presence, hears the ragged breaths and the charge in the air from just being in his presence.
He is scared to look at him, scared that once he turns it will not be him, will be a random shade seeking his silent and lonely glade. He forces himself to look, tears his eyes away from the misty of the Lethe, and his eyes land on the familiar figure.
My Achilles.
Patroclus stares at him and sees the tanned skin, the pained green of his shining eyes, the missing uneven cut of his hair as if it were sheared off. He sees his muscles twitch and his hand hover. Patroclus has never seen Achilles this destroyed, this heartbroken.
“Achilles.”
A-chill-es.
All the syllables released, uttered in the glade not for the first time but for a different purpose. It is all Achilles needed to stumble to him, reaching out with a sob choking out of his throat. He reaches for him, desperately yet so painfully gently cupping Patroclus’ cheek.
“Patroclus.”
Pa-tro-clus.
He watches as Achilles face finally crumbles and he pulls their faces together, foreheads pressed together. His hands are rough, calloused from their years at war. Hands that were destined to destroy, were made for it, holding him carefully, as if expecting Patroclus to dissipate. He presses further into the touch and holds him firmly, pushing Achilles’ hesitance away.
“They cannot see us here.”
No further words are needed, as they hold each other. Words are for another time, one where they are not afraid. Achilles falls forward, and their tears and bodies mix together as one.
For the first time since he arrived, Patroclus truly believes this is the Isle of the Blessed.