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“That is not strictly true.”
Asterius sat with the fallen shade in some quiet corner in Elysium, shared bottles of ambrosia lying between them. The bright light of Ixion was as strong as ever, drenching their surroundings in an ethereal white-blue. It was wonderful light to fight by, perfect for duelling or any other activity in which good eyesight was key. Patroclus had no doubt that it would be the bane of the hangovers they would each soon be nursing.
“What isn’t true?” the man asked, taking another lengthy swig, “I seem to have quite forgotten what I said.”
The minotaur bowed his head and snorted, as if giving the matter consideration. “That I saw nothing outside of the maze. I was not born there.”
A lengthy moment passed between them, enough for a couple of errant butterflies to settle on Pat’s hair. He made no move to brush them off.
“Queen Pasiphae-”
“Your mother?”
“Yes… My mother. She hid me for a time, I am told. A handmaiden of hers resides here in Elysium.”
“A nurse, perhaps?”
“No,” Asterius said slowly, “I am told that the Queen- that my mother cared for me herself.”
If Patroclus was surprised, he betrayed no trace of it. Merely nodded, allowing the bull to continue.
“I remember almost nothing from that time - before the labyrinth. Only little things that I did not understand, or believed that I had dreamt.”
“Memories are fickle things,” Patroclus murmured, almost as if to himself. “Even the gods do not control what time takes from us.”
“Wise indeed, fallen one. Though I believe I understand more of what remains, now.” His tone carried the weight of a truth long since realised. The Minotaur reached for a bottle and downed half in one gulp as Patroclus sipped at his own beverage idly.
“In the tunnels, when I was still very young, I once found a piece of chalky stone. I took it to an enclave I favoured and drew white marks on the ceiling. The light was strongest there. The marks were dull… But visible.”
“Stars…” Patroclus breathed, realisation washing over him like a cool tide.
“Yes. I didn’t understand what they were; nor could I recall where I had seen them. I can remember a woman though, with dark hair and skin. She always spoke my name… That is how I knew it.”
Patroclus looked puzzled at that, nudging the issue, “Always, friend Asterius?”
“I dreamt of her often. I do not recall a face, only that she was beautiful.” He spread his palms before himself, frowning at the splayed fingers. “She was warm.”
Pat tilted his head, disturbing the butterflies. One settled on the minotaur’s nose for a moment. He snorted.
“It sounds like a wonderful memory.”
“I will never truly know whether it was a memory at all. I had thought of her as some benevolent goddess, made to watch over me. A dream that faded to an ideal as I aged.”
The ambrosia they had consumed made the already heavy topic like lead. Patroclus had a lifetime of experience dealing with rash, brash, and dramatic, but melancholy was his forte. He had little idea of how to react when presented with such solemn reactions. He thought of his own mother, the memory of a perfect moment on a beach. Such a memory could surely not have been real, though the feeling that surrounded it had remained with the Myrmidon well beyond the bounds of life.
“Whether or not the memory is real, the emotion remains. Perhaps that in itself is the most telling.”
The bull considered it. “It is as good an answer as any, I suppose. Certainly an improvement on dwelling for eternity on a question without answer.”
“That’s the spirit,” sighed Patroclus, tilting a bottle to his lips. “I suppose that is why you favour the other Champion of Elysium, eh? As he was your saviour in death?”
Asterius let out another snort, this one akin to a laugh.
“A common misconception. The King has been nothing but good to me.”
“You are a kinder one than I then, for dismemberment would rather put me off someone.”
Asterius ignored the comment.
“People are quick to their judgements. In life, I did not want to leave the labyrinth. I wanted it to end.”
“It is entirely understandable. Though I have known men achieve the same without the aid of another.” Patroclus slumped down to lie on his back amongst the soft emerald grass.
The bull had begun wringing his hands; it was rather an odd look for one as large as himself. Finally, for Patroclus realised it had been a while, he spoke.
“I did not want to die alone.”
There was no reply Patroclus could give, so he let Asterius continue.
“When I met him, he was young and unsure of himself. A son of Poseidon with no proof of his parentage. He had to cover himself in a glory that most men could not imagine, else be denounced as a liar and a bastard.”
Patroclus nodded to himself, all too familiar with the destructive miasma of honour and pride that followed a demigod.
“He had long, golden hair and not a thought under it of what to do or expect. He did what nobody else had thought to do. He spoke to me.”
A short silence hung in the Elysium glade, seemingly silent of even the gentle whisper of butterfly wings.
“Most see me and assume. He was thrilled when he discovered my sentience.”
“I imagine he began ranting no end.”
“He did. Back then, he struggled with his words, stumbling over them as they stuck in his mouth. There were syllables he could not quite force out, and it angered him greatly. I was a direction for that anger. My time in the labyrinth ended with the knowledge that I needn’t always be thought of as a monster. Theseus saw me as a rival, not an animal for slaughter.”
“I suppose your relocation from Erebus rather pales in comparison.”
“It does. I doubt the King even realises,” finished the minotaur.
The ensuing quiet was pleasant, allowing the pair to soak up the story alongside the remainder of their drink. Elysium air was strangely still, the dead having little need for fresh gusts of wind, and the roar of battle was a distant memory in the little glade. It was a place that assured you eternity existed, rather than remaining some abstract idea. Patroclus let a smile tug at the side of his mouth as he remembered a time when he believed such a place could not capture the ever-moving, ever-inconsistent lover.
As if his thoughts had been audible, Asterius picked up the thread of conversation once more.
“I have heard that you yourself have experience with unruly blond heroes.”
Patroclus laughed at that. His Achilles always had a way of breaking a silence, seemingly without needing to be present. He picked up another bottle of ambrosia, readying himself to tell his own tale as he took a swig.
-o-
In a palace in Crete, far beneath an inky black sky, a young woman hides in the shadow of a column. The gardens are ostentatious, architecture ornate, but that is not what she has come for.
They will find them soon. They will take her and beat her into submission, defenceless as she is with what little magic she has recovered since the birth. Her healing has been a long process; even years later her frail arms strain to lift the little boy from where he hides beneath her robes.
Little boy. For that is what he is; a tiny baby unprepared for a world that hates him. She moves the fabric covering his short snout, cloth catching slightly at the nubs of his underdeveloped horns. He reaches for her, dewy eyes sparkling as a tiny fist is wrapped into her dark curls, as if for comfort.
Soon though, his soft ears twitch as they capture the noise of nightlife, minute rustling of animals and leaves to which she is deaf. Turned-up nostrils flare with the fresh scent of the sea; his downy fur ruffled for the first time by a breeze. He looks up from her face, towards the sky. The child’s eyes are a mirror, filled with every constellation that Pasiphae dares not face. Their time is short, and the tears pricking at her waterline know it well.
“Look, Asterius. Stars .”