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To be remembered by those who barely knew him, or to be remembered by the one who loves him the most? Patroclus pondered such questions aloud, brooding alone. He thought about his former comrades, and how their deeds were deemed unsuitable for this realm of glory. To earn glory was to wage war, sustain it for the chance at a fated reputation. And for what?
In their mortal days, they often talked about settling down and living their days in peace. Achilles chose a fleeting war over love, a decision he ultimately regretted. But now? He doesn’t need to remind him of his folly, for Achilles understands. He finds it best to leave past wounds closed. They’ve both fought enough.
Upon returning from the nearby hot springs, Patroclus notes the peculiar development in their humble glade. A shade with a domed, yellow hat waves at the pair.
“Achilles, what is this?”
“It’s home,” Achilles says. “I remember your wish, from long ago. You wished to settle down, just the two of us. I didn’t listen back then, and so… I hope we may try again. It’s the least I owe you, Pat.”
Patroclus exhales, speechless from the sight. Blue-gray stones form the home’s exterior, complementing the realm’s atmosphere. It’s a humble abode in the making, and it’s for them. He hasn’t had something to call his own in a long time.
“The lad and I combined our earnings to fund this home,” Achilles says, gesturing toward the shade. “That is the house contractor from my place of employment, you see.”
“So the hot springs were a diversion?”
“You’re not entirely wrong. Though, you can’t deny that we had a good time, hm?”
A chuckle. “I suppose not. Still, this is… we truly can try again?”
Achilles leans in to give him a kiss, paying no mind to surrounding shades. They’ve known for a while.
“We can. We have all of eternity to make the space our own. It’s been some time since we’ve had a proper roof over our heads.”
“Always a tent, and then another,” Patroclus recalls. “Before then, a home in the mountains, the castle, and...” He retreats too far into the past and stops, memories lingering as they tend to do. A gentle squeeze of his hand brings him back.
“The glade will be somewhat noisy until it is complete, but afterwards? It’ll be just us.”
“Just us,” he repeats. “I… I look forward to that.”
For now, they trade noise for more noise and walk to the arena. Watching the stranger fight the champions has become a staple of their visits together. It’s always a surprise, from the weapons he wields to the assortment of boons the gods grant him. On occasion, he summons them to join the fray, and his Achilles makes a grand show of it. It’s quite amusing.
The stranger grants them a break from battle, wielding a different plush animal in his hand. A flash, and a one-winged figure detonates the arena with bursts of fatal light, then vanishes in a scattering of bats. A rebuke from the champion, and then he’s gone alongside the Bull of Minos, their spirits dissipating into the air. The crowd applauds, and Patroclus smiles at the thought of Theseus’ waning popularity.
Zagreus remains the undisputed champion. He runs toward his biggest fan and waves. The good shade, he calls them. A very good one, indeed. He notices them next and waves, calling them out by name. Patroclus acknowledges him with a smile, while Achilles shouts his joy back. It’s the little things that assure him, these new memories he and his beloved make together, slowly but surely.
As the shades build their home, they spend time exploring the corners of the realm together. Patroclus revisits places he once traversed alone; he views them in a new light with his beloved beside him. Fruit trees flourish, and fresh herbs rest in the soil, ready for harvesting. They pass groups of shades settling around a humble fire, roasting vegetables and sharing tales. It’s the mundane activities that bring about nostalgia.
They return to a completed house, simple in its design, yet perfect in his eyes. It’s merely the beginning, and yet, it’s so much to take in.
“Everything all right, love?”
He feels Achilles stroke his face gently, and he leans into the touch.
“Just… processing it all.”
“Take your time.”
Enough time passes, he thinks. “Ah, suppose we should take a look inside.”
Achilles kisses his cheek. “Let’s do that, then.”
Hand-in-hand, arms swinging lightly, they open the door and step inside. Unlike Patroclus’ quarters in Phthia, the interior is unfurnished. They ascend a short flight of stairs, and the upper room contains lamps attached to the walls, as well as a large bed. It looks comfortable from sight alone. In a way, he looks forward to adding furniture, keepsakes, paintings - whatever he desires. It’s a new start.
“Apologies for the sparseness,” Achilles says as they return to the ground floor. “The lad and I spent all our funds. Figured the bed must come first, then lighting. Now we can decorate to our hearts’ whims. Let’s see… ah!”
Achilles looks around and spots an object in the corner. Picking it up, he returns to Patroclus’ side.
“It’s a catalog of furniture and other wares, similar to the one the lad uses back at the House. Take a look.”
He passes the book along, and Patroclus turns the pages. Detailed sketches of tables, chairs, and shelves decorate the parchment. Another section highlights miscellaneous items: wall decor, paintings, light fixtures, and everything that may help liven up the home. So many options. So many gemstones.
“I can see why the home is in this state,” Patroclus says, his tone sympathetic.
“I was told one can save funds by requesting that individual parts are sent. The buyer assembles items themselves, thus saving gemstones one would pay for the contractor’s labor.”
“We’re dead, Achilles. We still must worry about currency?”
“Wealth reigns, alive or dead,” Achilles starts, voice dropping to a whisper. “At least, when orders are affiliated with the House. Or perhaps the Lord Master must compensate for his own issues. You didn’t hear that from me, though.”
Patroclus lets out a huff. “Teasing aside, I don’t mind constructing the furniture. I have plenty of time to spare. And when you’re on break, you’ll help me, won’t you?”
“Of course, Pat. I’ll be here for you, always.”
They share a long kiss, arms wrapped around each other. It feels like the first kiss each time, how it leaves Patroclus dizzy with affection. Achilles’ arms fit perfectly around his waist, while his own hands find comfort in golden hair. He runs his fingers through, feeling its strength, noting its luster.
“You’ve been taking better care of yourself,” Patroclus murmurs. “That’s good.”
“Mm, suppose I have,” Achilles says gently. “I have a good reason to, after all. You’re here, and… well, I want to look my best.”
“We both know I’ve seen you in many states. Appearance matters little to me, love. Tend to yourself for your sake, not mine alone.”
“Aha, I’ll try, Pat. I’ll try.”
Achilles relaxes in his embrace, and he smiles. He feels one arm move from his waist to his hair, and fingers lovingly stroke his dark curls.
“Following your own advice, I see.”
“I was the same as you, I think,” Patroclus admits, pulling away to look at Achilles. “The state I was in… it was hard to even move, let alone care for myself. The thought alone exhausted me. I still feel fatigue, at times, but I think I’m better. I’m trying my best.”
“Your best is enough,” Achilles reassures. “You are enough, regardless of whatever state you’re in. I will love you still, and always. No matter what.”
Patroclus sees the flash of guilt upon his face, but says nothing. They both understand. All the trials they endured, the memories lost, and the memories retained... Patroclus tries to make sense of it all. Even in death, Achilles thought of him, while he dipped his hands into the Lethe to drink the memories away. Just a sip, then another, and--
“Pat?”
He blinks, then comes back to his senses. “I’m here.”
“You’re here,” Achilles reassures. “And now that you are, there’s much to look forward to.”
“Hm… well, I look forward to the times when you stroke my hair lovingly.”
Achilles laughs and follows through with the act, murmuring about his hair’s softness. Patroclus shivers a bit as fingers brush the back of his neck, then return to his hair. Bliss, simply bliss. It’s all he feels.
The caresses calm, and they gently sway back and forth in the center of the room.
“Shall we try the bed, love?” Patroclus murmurs against Achilles’ neck.
“Feeling tired?”
“Mm, a little. I’d just like to hold you more.”
Achilles chuckles. He’s here, he’s smiling, and his eyes are full of love.
They head upstairs to the bed, where a satin bonnet lies upon the sheets. They remove their outer wear, and Patroclus puts on the bonnet to protect his hair. The bed is plush and comfortable as they rest upon satin-lined pillows, embracing each other as soon as the blanket covers their bodies. They’re near-giddy with the realization of their own space, a new start to their afterlives.
The last Patroclus remembers are the softest words of affection, and he falls asleep in Achilles’ arms.
“Welcome back, stranger. Causing the usual mayhem, I presume?”
“Lots of it!” Zagreus grins, proud of his feats. “But I came here to drop off a gift for you! Er, not me specifically, but he should be arriving at any moment.”
“A gift? For me?”
“Of course, sir! Not only do I want to congratulate you on the new home, but I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done. All your patience and kindness, time after time.”
“What I’ve done? But…”
Words drift into silence as Zagreus waves toward the Lethe. A moment passes, and the edge of a boat appears. Patroclus knows this one. A god who usually works alone, responsible for ferrying departed souls to their respective realms. He encountered him in the past and appreciated the god’s preference for the quiet. He was in no mood to exchange words, back then.
“Hrrraaaugh…” Charon says. He retrieves a rectangular object from the boat and holds it out. Zagreus procures a bag of his own, and they trade items. Purple smoke wafts through the air, mingling with the Lethe’s mist.
“Hohhhhh…” Charon gently shakes the bag, exhaling at the sound of its contents. He dips his oar into the water and paddles forth, the boat drifting lazily along the Lethe’s surface.
“Charon’s an interesting fellow,” Zagreus watches him leave the glade. “A god of few words and many, many obols.” A sigh, almost dejected. “Anyway! I didn’t want this to get damaged, so I asked for his aid. You don’t need to open it now, sir, I know it’s stressful to show a certain response.”
“How astute of you. Do you know from experience?”
“I do. There was either another motive, or the gifts just didn’t suit me. Leave it to Father to do that…” he shakes his head. “But I’m not like that, I won’t be. I thought of what you might find useful, and I… I hope you like it, Patroclus. And thank you.”
He flushes pink, flustered, and he’s about to leave in a hurry.
“Zagreus.”
Patroclus watches him stop in his tracks. He uses his name sparingly, yet it’s always for good.
“It would be unwise to leave empty-handed.” Patroclus opens his arms, one hand holding the gift. “Not without a hug. If you would like one, of course.”
He can’t help but smile as Zagreus turns back and returns the embrace. Patroclus gently pats his hair with his free hand, and they share this moment in comfortable silence. Warmth, gratitude… such welcome feelings.
“From the bottom of my heart, where it once rested, I thank you. This is very kind of you, truly.”
“We’ll just keep thanking each other, if this keeps up,” Zagreus chuckles, resting his head against Patroclus’ chest. “Things can be different, now. You and Achilles, you have the rest of eternity together to do whatever you’d like.”
“...That, we do,” Patroclus pauses, taking in that statement, that truth. “We’ll figure things out, that much I can say. In the meantime, keep that kindness close to you. It’s a precious thing.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
He feels his smile. “I know you will.”
They pull away after some time and exchange farewells. The chamber doors shut, and Patroclus is alone, yet not lonely. He sits on the grass, fingers brushing against the designs on the gift’s cloth wrapping. The stranger put ample time and care into preparing this, and Patroclus uses equal care in removing it.
He unlatches the box and peers into its contents: a magnificent tome, a vial of ink, and a shimmering quill. He gingerly picks up the quill, and the feather reflects iridescent light. Oh, the stranger is too kind, indeed. All of this - ‘wonderful’ cannot begin to describe it.
Patroclus examines the vial of ink, noting the intricate designs against the bottle. He sets it aside, and the tome remains. The cover is black, intricate gold trimming surrounding its borders. Even the pages themselves are lined with gold. He opens it and finds the pages blank. Curious, he looks in the chest again. Ah, a note.
For Patroclus,
Just in case I get too flustered to explain, I wrote this instead! You have a gift with words. I could tell by the way you choose them. Wouldn’t have surprised me if you were a poet back in the day - turns out, a certain someone confirmed it! So here’s something you can use for whatever’s on your mind. The ink is enchanted, so it’ll never run out! Hope you like it! And if you fill up the tome, no worries, I can get as many you’d like. Trying to think ahead, here!
Anyway, it’s a small token of my appreciation. Thank you again, for everything.
- Stranger
Patroclus’ eyes brim with tears as he finishes the letter. Oh, this is… he is too grateful. And what better way to show his gratitude than to try out his gift?
He sets the open tome down on the ground and prepares the ink vial. Adjusting his grip on the quill, he dips the end into the vial and hovers over the page.
His mind is blank. His head? Empty. All those racing thoughts, just waiting to be written… where did they go? Will they come back? He filled countless rolls of parchment with his musings as a youth. This tome is too magnificent. Yes, that makes sense. It’s too lovely, too splendid. He’s almost afraid to ruin it with nonsense. It’s not like anyone else will look inside without permission, so why does he struggle? Why must he always struggle?
He shakes his head. No need to be dramatic - that’s Achilles’ job.
A sigh, and he pens the first word that returns to his haze of a mind.
Fool.
He writes the word again with fancy lettering, as if that will make a difference.
Fool. Fool. You are a fool.
But I still love you,
And I always will.
He smiles. It’s a good start.
“This is - is this a joke? I’ve spent so long on this, why...?”
Patroclus mutters, inwardly scolding himself as another lopsided shelf rests upon the grass. There are no instructions, only pieces, too many pieces. Do the Fates and gut feelings guide his actions? If so, they’re all wrong. Becoming one with the moss feels like a lovely opinion.
The chamber doors open from the opposite end, and it’s no stranger. A much taller figure approaches with heavy footsteps. No flames scorch the grass.
“Ah. Warrior,” a deep voice greets.
Patroclus breaks out of his inner turmoil and returns the greeting. “Ah, the Bull of Minos. Or Asterius? Which do you prefer?”
A snort. “Hmph, I do not mind either name. Though for the sake of brevity, Asterius will suffice.”
“Very well. Pay little mind to the mess here. What brings you to the glade?”
“Curiosity got the best of me. The King busies himself with solo battles in the arena, and the autographs that shall certainly follow. I needed some quiet time, and I heard you received a humble abode.”
“Humble indeed, and bare until I can assemble the decor,” Patroclus says, looking down with a hint of embarrassment. “Things aren’t going as well as I hoped.”
“Do you require some aid?” Asterius asks.
“Oh, I don’t wish to impose,” Patroclus shakes his head. A piece of polished wood separates from the shelf and lands with a soft thud, followed by a sigh. “You mentioned quiet time, no? Assembling shelves and the like is not the calmest way to pass the time. Certainly not now.”
“Perhaps with a helping hand, the experience may prove calmer than you think. I could feel the agitated air upon entering this glade.”
How perceptive of him. He’s right, too.
“If you insist, then I would appreciate it. Thank you.”
They disassemble and adjust the shelf to the best of their abilities. So long as it functions adequately, Patroclus can sacrifice symmetry. Together, they carry it into the home. Asterius ducks his head and contorts his body to fit within the door frame. On the way out, the tip of his horn collides with the wall and leaves a dent.
“My apologies. I did not properly assess the space I take up. Spatial awareness is somewhat complicated.”
“Oh, you need not worry about it,” Patroclus assures. “If anything, it provides that ‘lived-in’ feeling, I think.”
“Viewing the wine cup half-full?”
“Trying to, yes. To think I would reach such a point again. Hah… it’s quite nice.”
They finish their work in due time, clearing the glade of wood and stray parts. Patroclus dusts the palms of his hands against his cloak and stretches his arms, out of habit.
“It seems things are under control,” Asterius says, scanning the surroundings. “If that is all, then I shall take my leave.” Hooves brush against the grass, and he turns toward the exit.
“Wait a moment,” Patroclus says, retreating into the home. He returns with a fine bottle of ambrosia, holding it in both hands. “Take this, as my thanks for your help.”
“Ambrosia, warrior? But we have not done battle. Must we--?”
“There’s no need, nor do I hold the desire to,” Patroclus shakes his head. “You helped me, and it is only fair.”
Asterius steps forward, gently accepting the bottle with gratitude. “You are too kind. I… I am not sure if I can accept this on my own. Let us share the contents together, if you have the time to spare.”
“Hah, if you insist.”
Patroclus retrieves two cups from the house, and they settle upon the grass. He remains unaccustomed to spending idle time inside, though Asterius doesn’t seem to mind. One glass each, then two, then more. The ambrosia depletes quickly. The bond between the gift-bearer and the receiver plays an important role, according to Achilles’ findings. As Patroclus takes another sip, it’s different against the tongue. Pleasant, of course, yet different.
“Does the arena ever overwhelm you? Not the battles themselves, but the noise and energy. It’s quite a lot.”
“It can be, yes,” Asterius starts. “While I look forward to competing with the best, I do enjoy the quiet moments, in between. Time spent with the King, or time to myself. I cherish both.”
“How do you spend your quiet time? Not including this, of course.”
Asterius chuckles. “I enjoy tending to the flowers outside my abode. The King and I constructed a garden together. Watching the plants grow tall and flourish, it instills a sense of pride. It helps me feel useful, that these hands are not simply for waging battle.”
“Hm. Useful,” Patroclus repeats, looking up at the sky. He can certainly relate.
“You appear as if you want to speak, warrior. Go on.”
A nod. “Interacting with nature, with the earth around you… it’s humbling, in a way. I tended to some flowers in my mortal days - mainly medicinal plants. I was a healer before I was a warrior, you see.”
Asterius hums. “That does not surprise me. Your spirit, even in its past melancholy, gave off that type of air.”
“A past melancholy,” Patroclus repeats, letting out a huff. “Yes… it’s in the past now. I didn’t think it would come to this point, but here I am. It’s quite nice.”
“I am happy for you. I see it in your eyes, that you are in a better place.”
How observant of him. And to Patroclus’ relief, he’s correct. His mind wanders adrift less often, with less intensity. His everything has returned to him.
“If it does not trouble you, warrior, I wish to hear about your perspective,” Asterius says, setting down his empty cup. “You hold the power of life in your hands. It is a matter of circumstances that dictate what you choose, to heal or to fight. Was it difficult for you?”
“...At times, yes,” Patroclus answers, placing his own cup aside. “I was trying to survive while helping others survive, as well. I don’t glorify my acts as a warrior, having sent many souls to this place. And yet, I was also respected for my skill as a healer. Kindness, too, if you can believe it.”
“I believe it.”
“You… oh.”
His words strike deep within Patroclus, where his heart once beat. He didn’t wish to fight in the war, knowing fellow warriors lose themselves in pursuit of glory. One event led to another, and Patroclus tried, with all his might, to never lose himself.
“I treated the wounded with patience, ensuring their injuries healed well. I prided myself in such care, and when they shared their gratitude, it reassured me. Moments like that, they help me remember that these hands can do good. Sometimes, I forget.”
“I understand such a plight,” Asterius says, hesitant. “I… hmph.”
“Take your time.”
“Well, you need not share details, but… have you ever felt unwanted, warrior?”
The question brings up memories from long ago, ones that he buried within. Asterius doesn’t know that, yet the manner in which he asks - straightforward and vulnerable - coaxes a response.
“Yes. I have.”
“I see.” Asterius pauses, exhaling deeply. “I am remembering certain events from my past. In short, someone I trusted decided I was a burden, and I was cast away.”
Cast away, a burden… oh, no.
“I was lonely,” Asterius shakes his head. “I was not sent far away, and yet, it felt so far. I felt abandoned, believing that I could only do harm. It was a difficult time.”
Yes, it’s all too familiar. Patroclus does not pry, but he understands.
“And how are times now?”
Asterius thinks for a moment. “Brighter. I remember that my hands can also do good, and it grounds me. I am here now, with my King, and I can put those times behind me. I admit they do resurface, however.”
“Some memories persist, even if we wish to forget.”
His eyes drift toward the Lethe. If Asterius notices the gaze, he says nothing.
“We’re not so different, in the end.”
“I suppose not, warrior. Even so, I wish the circumstances were more pleasant.”
“We are in this realm, now. There’s time to make better memories, ones we may cherish.” Patroclus takes pride in this revelation, one he would’ve never considered in his past melancholy. “You know, Asterius, I find your company most pleasant without Theseus. His energy is a bit too much, I must admit.”
“Hmph. I take no offense at the statement. The King’s temperament… it is not for everyone.”
“I’ll bet,” Patroclus jests. “More importantly, he treats you well, yes? I find his insults toward Zagreus distasteful. That is not the case for you, I hope.”
“Not at all,” Asterius reassures him. “I often share my concerns regarding his choice of words, but in the heat of battle, he claims he cannot control his temper. But that is no excuse, is it?” He sighs. “I shall speak more with him, though I cannot promise more beyond that. You and I both know him as the stubborn type.”
“Oh, he’s not the only stubborn one, around here,” Patroclus scoffs. “But fair enough. If he starts causing trouble and you require assistance, well… you know where to find me.”
Asterius snorts, amused. “I shall consider your proposal,” He stands from his spot, brushing stray pieces of grass from his legs. “I must tend to my garden, warrior. Certain flowers require extra attention, you see. I hope we may converse again, either here or in battle.”
“Hah, I look forward to it. May the flowers grow strong.”
Asterius takes his leave, and Patroclus heads inside, noting the newly placed furniture. Reaching the bed, he removes his armor, puts on his satin bonnet and rests his weary head upon the cushions. Ah, the blessed feeling of the softest, plush bed and--
“So this is the abode Asterius spoke of!”
It was nice while it lasted.
“Hail, warrior!” he hears Theseus outside, voice carrying across the glade. “Should you have time to spare, it would be most wise to spend it in my esteemed company!”
He almost laughs, but the sound would alert him. He doesn’t want to leave the comfort of his bed. It beckons him, while the champion does not. If he pretends to sleep, then he’ll go away.
“Hm, no one is home? No matter! Suppose I shall pick the flowers I passed by for Asterius,” Theseus speaks to himself, and footsteps retreat.
A relieved sigh. Patroclus no longer pretends, and he drifts off into a peaceful slumber. When he awakes, there’s familiar shuffling nearby, a weight upon the bed, and arms wrapping around his waist.
“Did I wake you, love?” Achilles murmurs, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
“Mm… do that again,” Patroclus gives a sleepy smile.
The lightest laugh, and then there are more kisses against his forehead, his cheek, his lips.
“I saw the new furnishings. It is looking more like home with each visit, and… ah, we shall talk about it later,” Achilles says, cozying up to him. “Let’s get some rest.”
And rest well, they do.
“Why are there so many parts, Pat?”
“Don’t forget the pile over there.”
“Oh, gods.”
The greatest of the Myrmidons, and the most terrible with furniture. At least Patroclus doesn’t bear the title alone.
Through trial and mostly error, the two construct new furniture and arrange them within the house. Patroclus places a flat stone beneath a wobbling table leg and considers this a victory. They can fix things later. Maybe.
For now, they admire the fruits of their labor. A wide, plush rug decorates the floor. A chaise lounge rests against the wall furthest from the entrance, and a low table rests in front. Another larger table rests against the adjacent wall, the top covered with various objects. Bottles of nectar, Elysian flowers awaiting arrangement, stone tools… it’s quite a mess, truly. The move-in process is its own battle.
Achilles collapses on the floor with a sigh of relief.
“Think the basics are done. We can take our time with the decor. Please, let’s take our time.”
Patroclus joins him on the floor despite the assembled chaise lounge in his view. Achilles is down here, and he wants to be with him.
“We also have Asterius to thank during this whole ordeal. That explains why our ambrosia is missing.”
“Oh, that? Not a problem. We can always win more,” Achilles says, taking Patroclus’ hand in his own. “That’s very kind of him to help. I shall thank him when I can.”
Patroclus squeezes his hand. “As it turns out, we have more in common than I thought. It was… an enlightening talk, I would say.”
“I’m happy for you, Pat. You deserve more pleasant company around these parts, and Asterius comes across as the decent sort. As for his companion, well…”
An amused scoff. “He visited soon after Asterius left. I simply stayed in bed.”
“Hah! I would’ve done the same.”
Should Theseus return again, Patroclus might humor him. He hopes that time won’t come, for a while.
“Why are we on the ground, again?”
“I’m not sure, but you’re here, Pat. That’s all that matters.”
“Oh, my Achilles.”
They recover strength through affections that would fluster passing shades. At least they’re inside.
Achilles is at work again, and Patroclus spends the idle time writing - or trying to. He stares at his blank page, transferring thoughts to parchment with little success. Scribbles and sketches of local flora decorate the page, instead. He contemplates another nap as the chamber doors open, and the ground trembles with each incoming step.
A dog, or... three? There is an enormous body, bright red, and three heads. The visitor trots in as if they’re enjoying a casual stroll in nature. The glade tremors with the force of each paw pounding the grass, and Patroclus merely stares. He sees chariots with sharp teeth; odd sights are familiar in this realm.
“You are quite tall, stranger,” Patroclus cranes his neck for a better look. Three pairs of eyes curiously stare back, tilting their heads and bumping into each other. The heads sniff and paw at the grass in front of him, bright green noses blending in with the grass. It’s quite adorable. Then the dog moves closer, and all three heads sniff Patroclus.
“What are you… ah! I think I know.”
He retrieves the cyclops jerky from his stash of trinkets. The heads stare at the meat and bicker with each other, eager to receive the first bite.
“Patience, please. There’s enough fighting in this realm, and I have plenty for you all.”
Waiting for his guest to settle, Patroclus holds out a piece of jerky to the head on his right. Fiery energy simmers into calm gentleness as they receive Patroclus’ gift. He holds out pieces for the remaining heads and watches with amusement as they enjoy their treats. They thank him with a nose bump against his palms, and as quickly as they started, Patroclus holds up empty hands.
“That’s the last of it, stranger.”
The heads whine softly, and Patroclus gives them time to sulk. Their feelings are valid, of course. Eventually, they cheer up and bump their noses against Patroclus’ hands again.
“Would you like pets?” he smiles. “I shall give you pets. But which one…?”
He raises his hands toward the head on his right, who nuzzles eagerly. This one, it seems. The dog’s fur is soft to the touch and well-groomed. Time passes, and he lifts his hands away. The head whines softly.
“I know, I know, but I must be fair.” Patroclus holds his hands forward, waiting if the other heads welcome his touch. The middle one sniffs cautiously, then bumps their nose against his palm. Another nose bump, and then they nuzzle. Patroclus repeats the motions, smiling as the dog wags their tail and relaxes. He moves on to the final head, who sniffs curiously and accepts his affections. Such an endearing guest. They remind him of the dogs he and Achilles cared for in their youth, pleasant memories that he’s grateful to remember.
His guest of honor rolls onto their back as he ponders, and the act makes him laugh. “Belly rubs, I presume? Very well.”
He dotes on this guest, rubbing their stomach with his arms. Patroclus looks toward the heads, their tongues hanging out of their mouths. They’re having a lovely time.
The doors open, and flamed footsteps singe the grass.
“Hello again, sir-- berus? What are you doing here?”
“So Cerberus is the name,” Patroclus says aloud, eyes focused on one relaxed dog. Cerberus does not answer Zagreus’ question, occupied by the most exceptional belly rubs.
“Yes, he lives back at the House, and he’s my best boy,” Zagreus laughs, joining Patroclus in his task. “I got this side, you got that one?”
“Got it.”
Cerberus happily wags his tail in the presence of the ever-gentle Zagreus, enjoying the moment in pure bliss.
“Back to your question, stranger. What is he doing here?”
“Normally, he should be standing guard while I fight innumerable rats and satyrs to fetch his favorite snack.” His voice raises in pitch. “Yet, here you are, boy, lazing around! Now I don’t feel bad about avoiding work, but anyway! I know he’s treated you well - Patroclus is the kindest!”
“You flatter me,” Patroclus says, amused. “Ah, is he one dog, or three?”
“Hmm, I call him my best boy, so one, I think. The heads though, they each have their own personality! Only one head enjoys the pets I give.”
“He allowed me to pet all three.”
“What?” Zagreus says, surprised. “He never lets me pet his other heads!”
“Another one of my talents, I guess,” Patroclus shrugs. “Did you know Achilles and I cared for nine dogs in our mortal days? Though, each dog only had one head.”
“What!?”
“A lot to take in?”
“Too much,” Zagreus shakes his head. “And nine of them? What was it like, were they a handful?”
“At times, yes, when Achilles and I were getting to know them. They each had their own temperaments, and we learned how to best care for their needs. Spoiled them rotten, too.”
“I imagine they had the best care,” Zagreus says. “Just thinking about it, there’s so much about the surface I’ve yet to learn. Like the things you told me about snakes.”
“Oh, that. Best to assume most are not your friends.”
“I know that, now, “ Zagreus shakes his head. “Same as what you call a ‘mountain goat’. But something else bothers me.”
“Go on.”
“Have you ever heard of birds?”
Patroclus tries to give Zagreus a look, though Cerberus’ large body obscures him from view. “Well…”
A flash appears, and his beloved arrives amidst swirls of light.
“Oh! Just in time for the gathering, I hope?” Achilles greets. “You, the lad, and Cerberus, of all guests!”
“You’re the best boy, you know that, don’t you? Yes, you are!” Zagreus coos, too distracted to return the greeting.
“I was just as surprised as you are,” Patroclus answers in his stead. “He came wandering in, ate my snacks, and now we are spoiling him. Join us, won’t you?”
Achilles chuckles, lowering himself beside Pat to kiss him on the lips. He joins the pair in providing the best belly rubs for the best dog.
Cerberus soon rolls back onto his feet, tail wagging quickly as he looks at the group.
“Think he wants to play,” Zagreus laughs, petting one of his heads. “How about it, sirs? Do you have the time to spare?”
“I could use some activity,” Achilles agrees.
“Hm, it would be time well-spent, I think,” Patroclus joins. “There is a grassy field nearby. Should be large enough for a frolicking Cerberus.” He smiles, watching Cerberus respond to his name with joy. He’s a lovely dog, indeed.
On the way to the fields, they pass a grove of trees, long branches hanging high above their heads. Patroclus scans the premises, where several large branches rest on the ground.
“This should suffice. Reminds me of how we played with our own beloved dogs, Achilles,” he says, lifting one branch with strong arms. “I see you staring.”
Achilles grins. “Can’t help it when your arms look like that.”
“Ugh.”
Ensuring the branch lacks sharp edges, Patroclus hoists one end of the branch up and braces it against his shoulder. Achilles assists by holding the other end, while Zagreus accompanies an excited Cerberus. The fields grow near, and Cerberus bolts forward, followed by the eager stranger.
“The lad looks so happy, lately,” Achilles says from behind. “Heh, makes me feel a certain way.”
“A good feeling, I hope,” Patroclus answers. “But he does, truly. He deserves that and more. And if we can help him have a good time here, then it’s worth everything.”
“Indeed.”
A vast expanse greets the pair as they drop the branch, which lands with a soft thudagainst blue-green grass. They watch Zagreus and Cerberus playing and dashing across the fields. They leap far, jump high, and radiate joy. They’re content enjoying the sights when Zagreus runs over.
“Let’s try this out!” he says with excitement, grabbing the branch off the ground. His arms drop from the weight, but he quickly adjusts. Patroclus recalls the gods’ powers on his side. He’ll be fine.
What starts as a wholesome game of fetch with Cerberus becomes a friendly competition. They divide into teams for a game of keep away: Patroclus and Achilles against Zagreus and Cerberus. The field serves as the playing arena, and he feels his competitive spirit arise. Cerberus picks up the tree branch, firmly held within three sets of jaws, and the match begins.
Cerberus tosses the branch toward Zagreus, who lets out an “oof!” as he catches the branch with both arms, hugging it against his chest. He and Achilles go easy at first, gauging their movements and potential tricks they may pull. Then Achilles gives chase, and Zagreus launches the branch with god-enhanced strength. Cerberus snatches the branch’s center with his jaws and leaps in joy. The ground shakes as he leaps across the field with great speed.
All three heads coordinate and launch the branch forward. Achilles dashes and leaps high, catching it in the air. His proud smile is like the sun, his hair shining beneath the light. He laughs, hearty and full. The branch flies through the air and into Patroclus’ hands, and he joins in mirthful laughter. It’s as if they’re young again, playing among flowers and sand and mountain rock.
Cerberus gives chase, and Patroclus launches the branch like a spear. A burst of water darts through the air and slams into the branch, knocking it out of its trajectory. Zagreus phases through the air with godly speed and claims it in both arms, laughing in glee. This branch is very strong.
A huff. “So that’s how it will be.”
Patroclus unclasps his cloak and tosses it into the wind. Time to get serious.
At some point, he notices Achilles’ missing cloak, too. He glances at his muscular arms in the meantime, and Achilles steals a look or ten toward his own. They’re both fools in love, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Soon, they switch teams: Patroclus and Zagreus against Achilles and Cerberus. He bumps fists with Zagreus as Achilles pets one of Cerberus’ heads, and the new match begins. He steals many glances toward Achilles and catches him gazing back. Warmth and intensity blaze in his eyes, a youthful spirit he feels grateful to witness again.
The game morphs into a contest of dramatics - who can claim the branch with the most flair? He normally leaves such antics to Achilles, but he’ll play, too. Cerberus leaps with grace as he catches the branch, shaking the ground upon landing. Achilles keeps pace with his teammate, their combined power a formidable force. Fortunately, he has Zagreus.
They wait for an opening, and Zagreus dashes toward Patroclus, arm outstretched. Patroclus catches him and pivots, launching him like an empowered spear. Zagreus sails with the wind and swirling water, knocking the branch aside. Another burst of speed, and he claims it with a yell of victory.
“Haha! Well done!” Achilles praises. He’s grinning, laughing, and so, so happy. Patroclus meets his gaze and can’t help but laugh, too. All of them playing together, so carefree, worries gone with the wind (and his cloak). He’ll find it later. Maybe.
For now, where his heart once rested, he’ll hold this precious memory close.
“Anything new written since last time?”
“A few things, yes. I’m quite proud of this poem - would you like to hear it?”
“I’d love to, Pat.”
Achilles strums his lyre, practicing various notes and humming to himself. Patroclus clears his throat and reads from his tome as Achilles provides ambience through song. They rest upon newly-built seating outside their home, enjoying the crisp Elysian air. Poetry melds into lyrics, and Achilles follows his lead. Together, they harmonize, swaying gently with the sound of their voices. It’s one of their favorite pastimes, as of late.
The song ends, and the edge of a familiar boat emerges from behind a cluster of trees. They leave their belongings on the bench and greet the god among purple smoke.
“Charon, yes?” Patroclus says.
“Hraauughh…” he greets, turning to retrieve a large chest. Smoke billows out of his mouth as he turns back, holding out the chest with outstretched arms.
“From the head chef?” Achilles reads the attached label. “A welcome gift for our home… did they ask you to send this from the House?”
“Hhoooohhh…” Charon nods.
Patroclus accepts the chest graciously. “Thank you for this. Ah, we must pay you for your service. A moment, I--”
Charon searches within his dark cloak and pulls out a large sack, contents jingling as he shakes it. He makes a sound akin to glee, takes up his oar, and rows away.
“Well, all right, then.”
“Come on, Pat! Let’s see what’s inside.”
Patroclus chuckles at his beloved’s excitement - he adores it, and adores him. Unlatching the chest, he lifts the lid, and they peer inside. A collection of pristine fruits and vegetables, hand-picked by the chef themselves, rest inside. And on the top, a very round--
A scream.
Achilles steps back, shielding his eyes from the terror that plagues his vision. A lone red onion deters him from the rest of the gift.
“Oh, dear,” Patroclus shakes his head. “You both reside in the House. Did they not know?”
A shaky exhale. “The head chef… they’ve always been there, sating my ghostly appetite as I downed unspeakable amounts of contraband. But I’m afraid I never told them about my loathing of onions. When they gifted one to me long ago, I didn’t know what to do with myself.”
“You still did something though, yes?”
“Er,” Achilles stumbles. “I said thanks. Walked away, quickly. Then during my break, I went to my chambers and promptly threw the onion out the window.”
“Achilles!”
“Surely, some shade below would make use of it!”
“They’ve been fatally wounded, and an onion wounds them again!” Patroclus covers his face with his hand. “I think you should be honest, the next time you see them. Tell them your true feelings.”
“Isn’t that a bit much?”
“We’re talking about you, Achilles.”
“...I deserved that.”
“You did.” He leans forward to give Achilles a kiss in assurance. “Promise me, though. Tell them, so we can avoid this dilemma in the future.”
A resigned sigh. “You’re right.”
“I usually am.”
Chamber doors open, and the stranger dashes across to greet them.
“What’s all of this, sirs?” Zagreus asks, peering into the chest.
“A gift from the head chef, and, uh” - Achilles stumbles - “that.”
“What, this?” Zagreus reaches inside and plucks out the red onion on top of the vegetable pile. Achilles recoils at the sight, and Patroclus rubs his back to soothe him.
“My Achilles is not fond of onions, stranger.”
“That’s an understatement,” Achilles adds, brow furrowed in disgust. “If you would entertain a request from me, lad.”
“Of course, sir. What do you need?”
“Just--” Achilles’ eyes dart toward the onion, then back to Zagreus. “Take that onion off my-- off our hands, all right? Dispose of it, however you wish, I don’t care. Take it away. I’m not sure I can stand the sight any longer.”
“It’s quite a long story, this onion and how it plagues him, but we can speak of it later. I think we need some time to ourselves, but do take a trinket on your way out.”
“I see… all right! I’ll take this off your hands.”
“We thank you.”
Zagreus accepts the cyclops jerky, tearing the piece in half with his teeth. He then lifts the red onion - unpeeled, raw - to his mouth and bites down with a crunch. Eyes grow wide in alarm.
“Stranger! What--!”
“Bye, now!” Zagreus waves and goes on his merry way, leaving the two of them in shock. Patroclus tries to process the sheer horror of it all.
“Are you all right?”
“I think I’m in pain, Pat.”
“Me, too. Let’s lie down.”
“Please.”
The scent of onion lingers in the air, and they retreat into the house to escape. Setting the chest of vegetables aside, they lie down on the chaise lounge and find comfort in each other’s arms. Patroclus consoles his beloved with caresses and kisses, and Achilles returns them tenfold. The onion becomes a distant memory.
The underworld is full of surprises, Patroclus concludes. But now, he can face them with his Achilles. He’s here, they’re here. Things shall be all right.