Archive of Our Own

Searing pain brought Achilles to the ground, the first such pain he’d ever known, at least when it came to his body. His cry when he fell was still not as loud as his cries of grief when his beloved Patroclus had died. That ache was so raw that Achilles felt something almost like relief at the thought that Paris’ arrow had struck true and he might finally die and gain release.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to merely lie still, so he pulled himself slowly to his feet, agony shooting through the one. Reaching down, he grabbed the arrow, thinking to pull it out and perhaps end things all the faster.

This time his cry was a scream. It hurt far too much for him to continue pulling, but as he collapsed again he accidentally yanked the arrow free anyway.

Achilles lay there, expecting death.

Battle raged around him still, but what did that matter? He would soon be released to—please gods let it be so—see his beloved again.

Yet he felt no further weakness, no closing in of peaceful dark, and when Achilles looked down at his foot, he saw that the blood was now oozing very slowly from where his ankle was pierced through just behind the tendon.

He hadn’t suffered such an injury before, but he’d seen enough of them as Patroclus tended the wounded to know that he wasn’t going to bleed out, if the flow had already slowed. Indeed as he watched it stopped entirely, the wound scabbed over as if it were already a day or more old.

It seemed he would live.

A new pain struck through his heart, and the whole battle paused for an instant as Achilles threw back his head and howled.

His spear’s head was covered in ichor, soot, and less nameable things. Achilles himself was splattered in much of the same. He had fought dead champions in Elysium, the animate skeleton of the Lernean Hydra, all three Furies, and countless other shades and monsters. But he’d reached the bottom of Tartarus now, and was almost certain that on the far side of this last chamber he’d find his goal.

Standing in the center of said chamber, however, was one last obstacle.

Achilles didn’t know who the young god was, and he didn’t care. The youth was definitely a god, the burning feet and unnatural red left eye proved that. He hefted a spear not unlike Achilles’ own with the air of an expert, but one little god wasn’t going to stop Achilles now.

“You know, Achilles, sir, this wouldn’t be personal, just doing a job,” said the god, “but you had to go and kill Cerberus. He spent more than an hour after reconstituting trying to cram himself under Father’s desk, where he doesn’t fit anymore. You hurt him. So even if you do get me eventually, I’m going to make you hurt first.”

Achilles merely lunged forward, spear aimed at the godling’s heart. He had no need to defend his actions to this little god, who barely came up to his own shoulder. He’d kill the boy and then finally he would be able to find Patroclus’ soul, and bring him back as Orpheus had famously failed to do.

The godling dodged aside, though, moving with inhuman speed. Well, Achilles wasn’t truly human either, was he? If he had been, he’d have died before the walls of Troy.

The fight was a blur of sweeping spears and swift dashes, neither able to gain the upper hand immediately. Achilles seemed to have more experience, but the godling had abilities he lacked, and it kept them evenly matched. Both were ferocious, Achilles driven by his pain, the godling apparently driven by revenge for a dog, absurd as that seemed.

The boy was controlled, though, even in his anger. As was Achilles, for the most part. In fact, that control, the precision of his moves, the way he countered and the way he struck, began to seem familiar, in a way that was beyond coincidence. The godling fought like Achilles himself. Achilles’ mind was suddenly full of warm summer nights beneath the stars, of days spent in drills, Patroclus beside him, mirroring his moves under the watchful eye of a tall centaur.

Achilles stepped back, raising his spear’s point. The godling didn’t follow but stepped back himself, honoring the unspoken request. “Getting tired?” he asked with a smirk.

“Who trained you?” rasped Achilles. His voice was hoarse, and he realized that those might be the first words he’d spoken since learning that even his supposed weak spot was not weak enough to let him die.

The godling gave a wry little shrug. “Chiron did, Achilles, sir.”

He’d known what the answer must be, and yet it still landed like a blow. He could all-too-vividly recall nine days of weeping, even Patroclus unable to fully comfort him, as his mentor grew ever weaker, ever more feverish, his own healing arts failing him in the end. “Is everything in the universe designed to cause me pain?” Achilles bared his teeth and lunged forward again, as if he could drive memory aside with the point of his spear. The godling once more leapt aside and their battle resumed.

The young god wasn’t tiring, yet Achilles had reserves of strength he’d never before tapped. He’d never needed—never been driven—to truly stretch the limits of his divinity before. To his surprise, when Achilles did finally land a blow, glancing but far from a scratch, the god bled red, like any mortal boy.

Achilles knew he should probably care.

He didn’t.

He only pushed the godling all the harder, and finally experience won out over fresh enthusiasm and his spear sank home to the hilt, the godling’s eyes going wide in shock as he fell. Achilles stepped over his body even as it began to strangely vanish into a puddle of blood and stalked towards the final door.

Beyond it the glowering form of Hades himself sat behind a massive desk.

“Patroclus,” Achilles growled, even as insubstantial shades scattered away from him in terror. He strode up to the desk but stopped short of it, short of the place where he’d have to crane up to see the towering god. “Where is he?”

“Tch. You mortals and your pathetic, petty attachments. He is not here, shade.”

“HE IS DEAD!” roared Achilles.

Hades shot to his feet, slamming his hands down on his desk. “You dare!”

Achilles spread his arms out, gesturing with his spear. “What will you do to me, god of the dead? Kill me? I wanted to die and I could not! Now where is my beloved?”

“Not here!” bellowed Hades. “Not all souls stay below, you spoiled, jumped-up princeling. He has gone back to the world above, and been reborn.”

Achilles felt a pit open up within him. “Wh-what?” He’d never heard of such a thing. A dead soul, born again?

“I will repeat myself once more, fool of a demigod, and never again. Patroclus has been reborn above. Seek him there, if you want him. Now go, Charon will take you away lest you ruin more of my domain on your way out. Get out of my sight!”

Achilles felt numb. If he’d had to fight his way back to the world of the living, he might have simply sat down somewhere in Tartarus. As it was he sat in Charon’s boat with his mind blank, thinking nothing, feeling nothing. The foundations of his world had been torn down thrice now, and he had no more strength to rebuild from the rubble, not again. Not without Patroclus.

He sat still, staring at his own filthy sandals, as Charon rowed him through the underworld. He was still numb as he climbed out to stand on the bank of the Styx. As the boatman rowed away, Achilles almost sat down on the dusty riverbank. All this, for nothing. Part of him whispered that he might as well sit on the river’s bank for eternity. Patroclus was gone, there was no bringing him back.

Yet he wasn’t gone, was he? He was up there somewhere, presumably a newborn infant now.

Achilles drew in a deep, weary breath and turned his face towards the path up to the surface. He would find Patroclus. He didn’t know how, yet, but there had to be a way. He would find Patroclus, and they could be happy together again.

Pelagios sat in front of his father’s house, warm sun shining down on his tanned shoulders, his chiton worn just around the waist on this pleasant day, and worked his fingers across the net, finding the places where it needed mending without needing to do more than glance down briefly. Each hole he closed with careful work, splicing frayed strands together and tying new knots, keeping the net’s pattern as close to perfect as possible. The work of net mending never ended, but Pelagios didn’t mind it. He was being useful, helping his father to bring in the fish that fed their family and sometimes were sold to buy things other than fish, when the catch was good.

He went out on the boat sometimes, and was getting the muscles and calluses that came from handling ropes and nets, but when there was mending, he stayed home and did it, for he was only fifteen years old, and still short of his full stature. His elder brother went out nearly every day, and his little sister helped Mother in the house, and Pelagios did whatever else needed doing, and so the family got on well enough.

The youth had sat on the side of their cottage that faced away from the harbor, looking out on the seaside hills that sloped up from it, dotted with grazing sheep, so he saw the stranger quite a long time before the man reached their little fishing village.

He was a young man, about the same age as Pelagios’ brother, but with a pretty, aristocratic sort of look to him. His hair was long and golden, worn loose around his shoulders, only constrained by a plain headband, though it looked like it might be of gold. The staff in his hand wasn’t a staff at all, Pelagios soon saw, but a spear, with an ornate, jewel-set head. A warrior then, and probably a noble’s son, or a prince even. Pelagios wondered what had brought a man like that to a place like this.

To his shock the man left the main road and turned onto the tiny lane that led to Pelagios’ cottage. He halted on the path, directly in front of Pelagios, and stared in silence for a long, long time.

Pelagios shifted, not liking the way the stranger was looking at him. He looked at Pelagios the way a starving man looked at a fresh-caught fish, as if the man might devour him raw.

“Uhm. Can I help you, stranger?”

The man flinched back from Pelagios, which wasn’t at all reassuring. Was he some kind of madman? Had he been god-touched? And that spear… He was surely dangerous.

“Sir?”

“Patroclus… You don’t look… It is you, though. It is.”

“Uhm. Sir?” Pelagios glanced around. There was no one there but the two of them. Who was the stranger talking to?

The stranger dropped his spear, which was reassuring, and went to his knees right in front of Pelagios, which was not. It put them right at eye level as the tall man stared intensely at the seated youth. “Patroclus, please. You have to remember me. It’s Achilles. Surely you know me.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’ve never seen you before.” Wasn’t Achilles the name of the mad hero who was famous for killing a thousand men and then vanishing in the middle of a war somewhere across the sea? Pelagios eyed the stranger. He was an adult, but didn’t look old enough to have been there, since it had been before Pelagios had been born.

“You really don’t remember me, Pat?”

“Sir, I’m not Pat. My name is Pelagios. Please, you’ve mistaken me for somebody else.”

“No, you—!” Achilles cut himself off. “Forgive me. You truly don’t remember, I see, so it’s not your fault. But you are Patroclus, reborn again for me.”

Pelagios realized he was pressing his back into the cottage wall, as if he could back further away from Achilles, who was a madman, whether he was the mad hero of the war or not. “S-sir… Please, if you, I mean, if you think this Pat lives here, I could get my mother to speak with you?”

Achilles looked at Pelagios, and there was a stricken, pained look in his eyes. He picked up his spear and rose. Pelagios couldn’t help but flinch as Achilles, now armed, stood over him, well within spear’s reach.

Achilles winced and took two large strides back. “Forgive me. I… Obviously, you don’t remember. I promise you, I’m not mistaken. You were…” He swallowed hard, and Pelagios saw tears in his eyes. Gods, he was a complete lunatic. “You were named Patroclus once, and you were the other half of my soul. But you died, and the cruel gods dictated you should be reborn. Or maybe they were kind, I don’t know. You still are the other half of my soul, though. I can feel it. You’re him, definitely.”

“I… Please, sir. Please. Don’t… I…” Pelagios was shaking with fear now. What was this madman talking about? The other half of his soul, this beautiful, crazed, warrior prince? And him a fisherman’s son? It didn’t make any sense. “Please, sir, I’m not. Please. Don’t hurt me,” he said, voice high and tight.

“No, no, I would never hurt you.” Achilles took another step back. “I’m sorry. I… I’ll go for now. I’m very sorry.”

Then he turned and was gone.

Pelagios moved the tiller, gaze intent, his cousin pulling the ropes that angled the sail, a nephew aiding him, lashing ties into place as the sail shifted, catching the wind. He called out orders, shepherding the young men as the boat glided across the waves, the town looming before them. The sun was low on the horizon, nearly touching the sea, and they’d had a good catch, but as the dock came into sight, Pelagios hissed in annoyance. He was there again, damn him.

The boat glided up to the dock, the crew of Pelagios’ relatives readying their day’s catch for off-loading. Pelagios himself steered it, guiding it into place, one of his nephews jumping to the pier and grabbing a rope, tying the boat into place.

The work continued as it always did, the family in harmony, but Pelagios couldn’t help but be constantly aware of the man standing on the dock, leaning against one of the tall posts that anchored it, watching everything.

He no longer bore a spear, nor wore a breastplate, but otherwise looked just as he had, untouched by the years that had turned Pelagios from a child to a man. His face was smooth, his hair golden, his body fit and attractive.

Were he not so mad he would be precisely to Pelagios’ tastes.

But he was mad. He would not stop speaking of past lives, of fate, of how Pelagios was this Patroclus person.

It made him want to scream.

He’d long ago stopped fearing Achilles, but there was no affection in him, only annoyance, frustration, and on his worst days, hatred.

Today he tried to ignore the madman and merely do his work.

“Pat—Pelagios! Can I help?” Pelagios rolled his eyes as Achilles finally approached. At least the madman was finally calling him by his name. Mostly.

“No, thank you. I’ve got it.” He hoisted his load and stepped easily across the short distance from boat to dock. Fortunately Achilles didn’t insist, but unfortunately he trailed after Pelagios, rather like a lost puppy.

Pelagios strode faster, but of course Achilles could keep up effortlessly. “Pelagios, I know you’re angry at me, but I wanted to try to talk,” began Achilles, and that was it, he’d finally had enough.

Pelagios dropped the net of fish and spun around. “No. No, no, no, no! I have told you a thousand times, for my entire life, that I am not your Patroclus, I’m not your love, I’m not your destiny, I am nothing to you. And you! I wish to all the gods I could say you’re nothing to me, but what you are is a trial, a curse, a constant trouble that haunts me worse than any ghost. I do not love you, I will never love you. In fact I hate you. I hate the sight of your face and the sound of your voice and everything about you! If you actually gave one single damn about me you would go away and never, ever, ever come within a thousand miles of me ever again, you demonic, horrible madman!”

“Pelagios, I—”

“No! Shut up! For once will you listen to the gods-be-damned words coming out of my mouth? I hate you, I loathe you, you are the worst thing to ever happen to me, and I wish you didn’t exist. Do you understand me, Achilles? Go away! Go away, for all the god’s sake! GO!”

Achilles stared at Pelagios, eyes wide, expression stricken. He swallowed hard, looking as if he might cry. A shudder went through him, and for a moment he looked more like he might snap, like he might attack Pelagios. No doubt if he did, Pelagios would be dead a moment later, he was no fighter, but right now he was so fed up he almost would rather be killed then go on being constantly hounded.

All at once Achilles dropped his gaze, looking down at the dock beneath his feet. “You’re right,” he said, his voice hardly above a whisper. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Pat.” He turned and walked away, leaving Pelagios staring after him.

It took weeks for Pelagios to begin to relax, and he never managed to entirely stop expecting to see the tall, fair-haired madman around the next corner or waiting for him at the dock, but he never saw Achilles again. He lived out his life surrounded by his siblings, their children, and their children’s children, but never found love himself. In his old age he even wondered at times if Achilles might have been right, and they had been meant to be lovers. Even then, though, he never could regret driving Achilles away. He had his family, and the sea, and that was enough until the day he died.

Achilles fed twigs gently into the little coal on the hearth, re-starting the fire he’d left banked last night. A bowl of dough sat beside it, ready to be baked into a simple loaf, and a basket next to that held a few figs, the remainders of the last time he’d gone out to harvest. The season would be over soon, but he’d have figs for another week or two, at least.

The mundane task of making food was calming, a daily ritual that grounded him in reality. He enjoyed it, though it wasn’t strictly necessary. He felt hunger, but wouldn’t die if he didn’t eat. He’d learned that after leaving the fisherman Pelagios.

Once the bread was baking, Achilles considered if today might be the day. Placidus turned twenty today, he knew. He still hadn’t spoken directly to Patroclus’ latest reincarnation, but the little Roman farming town where the youth lived was small enough that everyone knew everyone. Achilles was a forester just now, his cottage up in the hills above the town, so he was further out of the loop than the villagers proper, but he still had no trouble hearing news without having to ask. All he had to do was linger a bit when bringing wood in for one particularly gossipy old lady and he’d get every detail of every life in town.

Surely twenty was old enough? Achilles himself looked only a little older than that, so it would be appropriate to approach Placidus. But then again, perhaps first thing on his birthday might be a bad time? His stomach clenched and churned nervously, and suddenly Achilles wasn’t sure he even wanted the figs, let alone the bread. What if he did it wrong again? What if yet another of Patroclus’ reincarnations hated him? He’d been an over-eager fool thrice now. At least the last one hadn’t declared hatred? Alcinius had refused him all the same, though, gods damn it. Achilles hadn’t even said anything about fate or reincarnation! He’d just been stupid, and gotten the young man’s parents turned against him, by being too affectionate far too soon. Perhaps he could have worked things around, but then Alcinius had married, and after the first child had come along, he’d gently but very firmly told Achilles that there was nothing between them, and to please go. So he’d gone.

It was frustrating. He’d thought it would be well enough, he and Patroclus had gotten together as children, after all! But then he was a man grown and beyond, given how long it had been. So obviously not.

“How many hundred years will it take for you to learn from your mistakes?” he said out loud. “Probably another century or two more at least,” he answered himself with a sigh. But he was learning, even if at a speed measured in lifetimes. So. Perhaps it was time to try this again. He would at least say hello to Pat—no, to Placidus, he reminded himself, never call him Pat or Patroclus—today.

So once breakfast was over, he loaded up his ancient mule with the day’s firewood deliveries and set out at a slow ramble through the early-morning forest towards town.

He delivered to old lady Aius, but didn’t linger for gossip today, then went to his next stop, where he usually delivered as swiftly as possible and rushed off, to avoid giving in to the temptation to say something inappropriate to Placidus. Today, though, as Claudius, Placidus’ father, came out to hand over payment, Achilles did linger. “So, I heard today’s a celebratory day for your son, sir?”

The man looked at him a moment, seeming surprised, but then smiled and nodded. “That it is. Twenty years old and a man grown.”

“He makes a handsome man,” said Achilles, looking away and down, not so much playing the part of the smitten, but simply remembering what it had been like, so very, very long ago, when he had been young and smitten.

Claudius chuckled. “That he does. Should I tell him he has an admirer, then?”

“Oh. Ah. If you like, sir.” Achilles felt his cheeks coloring, and he smiled at his own absurdity.

“You could tell me yourself,” said a voice, and Achilles nearly jumped. Placidus was standing behind him.

He didn’t look like Patroclus, not even a little. His hair was dark enough, but it was straight, and his skin was much too fair. The lines of his face were entirely different too, and he was shorter, but he was also fit, and his voice had something almost familiar in it. Not to mention the boldness he’d just displayed, that was Patroclus to the core.

Realizing he was staring, Achilles cleared his throat. “Sorry. I, ah, have been meaning to speak with you for a while. Working up the courage I suppose. Congratulations on your nativity?”

Placidus smiled at Achilles. “I’m glad you worked up the courage. I’ve been curious about the mysterious, handsome woodsman for ages, but you never seemed to look my way.”

“I’ll leave you boys to talk,” said Claudius, smiling. “Placidus? We’re mowing hay today, but given it’s a special day, we can spare you if you’d rather do something else.”

Oh gods above. Achilles felt his heart racing in a mixture of terror and hope. Was he going to actually speak with his love at last? Perhaps even get to touch his hand, or venture to kiss him again? No, no, put such thoughts aside. His…young crush, a man he’d never spoken to at all. This wasn’t Pat, he had to remember that. It was his soul, it was him, but it also wasn’t, and he had to remember that.

“Mister Mysterious? Hello?”

Achilles jumped again. “Woolgathering a bit there. Sorry. I’m afraid I get easily distracted sometimes.”

“Is that why you live out in the woods, and not in town?” asked Placidus.

Achilles nodded. “One of the reasons. Ah. I’m Achilles.”

“Achilles. Like the old Greek hero?”

“…yes.” Achilles smiled, and nearly could have laughed. Very like the old Greek hero indeed. But also very unlike, these days. And, well, if he wasn’t the Achilles he’d been, perhaps being with this not-Patroclus could work?

“So… If I wanted to take a walk in the woods, you’d know all the best, loveliest places, wouldn’t you?” asked Placidus, and there was a familiar twinkle in his eye as he said it.

Achilles’ heart went even faster, and he was sure he was blushing far too brightly, but he nodded. “I might. I’ve one more load of wood to drop off, and then I’d be happy to show you a lovely sight or two.” He paused, then added, “Though it’s possible I’m already looking at the best view available for miles around.”

Placidus flushed himself, and smiled. “Flatterer! But thank you. I’ll lend a hand with this delivery, then?”

“If you like.” Achilles nudged the patient mule along, Placidus walking at his side, and soon they were headed back to his little hut in the woods. Placidus helped brush down the mule before Achilles turned him out into his corral.

“Now I’ll show you a few places, as I promised,” said Achilles, giving Placidus a warm smile.

“Lead on, then,” said Placidus, but though he’d said “lead” he walked at Achilles’ side as they went through the wood, close enough to touch. Achilles ached with wanting to reach out, but no. No, he would let Placidus make the first moves. No more pushing too hard, no more wanting too much too soon. He had waited lifetimes, he could wait a little longer.

His first chosen spot was on the bank of a tiny streamlet that joined the larger river a few miles further on. Here it was small enough to step across, and wound amid trees and made miniature waterfalls over boulders, the banks of it lush with moss and the slower stretches thick with reeds. He found a sunny spot where grass lined the bank and sat there, Placidus immediately sitting beside him.

The grass was dotted here and there with little flowers, white asters, and Achilles couldn’t resist plucking one. He held it out to Placidus without a word.

“You’re a quiet sort, aren’t you?”

“I…worry, about saying the wrong thing,” said Achilles, still holding the flower.

Placidus plucked it from his hand, but then he reached out and tucked it behind Achilles’ ear. Achilles held his breath. “Don’t worry,” said Placidus.

“Easier said than done,” replied Achilles, but he smiled, and when Placidus rested his hand on the grass directly next to Achilles’ leg, Achilles dared to put his own hand over it.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” said Placidus, not moving his hand.

Achilles blinked. “I…” Damn. It was far too early for him to tell the truth. “I don’t want to lie to you,” he found himself saying.

Placidus lifted his eyebrows, looking amused and surprised in equal measure. “But you can’t tell me the truth?”

Achilles shook his head. “You said… Ah, you would say I was a madman.”

“Hmm. Interesting. And here I thought you were only a mystery because you’re shy. Some god-touched past, I suppose?”

Achilles couldn’t help the snort of near-hysterical laughter that escaped him. “You could say that. But why don’t you tell me about yourself instead?”

“What is there to tell? You know what the village is like. I farm. My father farms. That’s all there is.”

“There is a great deal more than that, I’m quite certain. What do you like? What are your favorite foods? You’re literate, aren’t you? Do you read many books? Do you have a favorite story? Tell me anything you like, I know I’ll find it interesting.”

“Hah. Somebody god-touched and hiding out in the woods, and you think my favorite book would be interesting?” Placidus shook his head, smiling. “But very well. It’s hard to choose, but I think I like The Iliad.”

“You would,” said Achilles, rolling his eyes. The fates were cruel, but they also had a terrible sense of humor.

“Hmm?”

“I hate the Iliad,” said Achilles, smiling to take any sting out of it. “Everyone in it was an absolute idiot.” He paused, then, unable to help himself, said, “Except Patroclus.”

“Hah! I shall have to tell my brother that. He thinks Achilles is wonderful and heroic, and can’t seem to get it through his head that the story is a tragedy, and Achilles isn’t meant to be an example for people to follow.”

“Gods forbid,” said Achilles, laughing.

“So you don’t admire your namesake, even a little?” asked Placidus.

“He was quite possibly the biggest idiot of the lot,” said Achilles. “He… He had the chance to chose peace and love, and he chose glory instead.”

“Well, but was it a choice, if he was fated?”

“Oh, are we going to debate philosophy, then? I think to him it felt like a choice, so even if he was fated, it’s also still what he chose, and it was the wrong choice.”

“Hmm. I’ll admit to the latter, he’s very much an example of what not to do.”

“Indeed. Already you are wiser than nearly anyone at Troy, inside the walls or out,” said Achilles.

“You could be him, you know. You’re handsome enough to be a demigod. Is that your god-touched mystery past, that you’re some divine by-blow?”

Achilles looked away and shook his head. This whole conversation ought to have him in tears, but he was here, talking with— With Placidus, dammit, not Patroclus, but still. He was so very like Pat, the soul had to carry some of the self on. And being here with him was making Achilles far too happy for tears.

“Is that a no, or a ‘yes but I can’t say’ or…?”

“It’s a ‘I’m not going to answer that question at all’ is what it is.”

“Ah, well, if we’re done with talking,” said Placidus, scooting closer, so that now their legs were pressed to each other, and making Achilles’ heart suddenly start racing again, “perhaps we could try something else?” His eyes were fixed on Achilles’ as he slowly leaned in. Achilles wanted to dive forward and kiss Placidus with frantic passion, but that would be the wrong thing to do, would ruin everything, so he stayed still, half singing with joy and half terrified as Placidus pressed a gentle kiss on his lips.

Looking at Achilles after he drew back, Placidus said softly, “Was that too much, too fast?”

“No. No, not at all. It… I…” Then he couldn’t help it, Achilles did lunge forward, and kissed Placidus hard and deep. Placidus let out a strangled noise of surprise, but then kissed back, giving just as good as he got.

When they broke apart they were both breathless with it, and Achilles felt like he might ascend to Olympus in that very moment.

“So! I see once you relax a bit, you’re quite a lot of fun.” Placidus grinned at Achilles.

Achilles flushed and cleared his throat. “Well. I… I suppose I’ll say I’m nervous? But you are… I… Damn. I don’t know how to say anything useful. You can kiss me all you like, certainly.”

“Oh good,” said Placidus, and then he did, this time not hard, but slow and deep, with a sensuality that made Achilles ache for how familiar it was. Gods, he was Patroclus, truly he was. The way he folded his arms around Achilles, pulling him close, was so nearly familiar that it was almost a shock to realize that Placidus was shorter than he. Patroclus had been within an inch of him. Placidus was nearly a whole head shorter.

He apparently decided this was a problem to be solved, for a moment later Achilles had Placidus in his lap, which put his head a little above Achilles’, and he took charge of the kiss with a confident passion that had Achilles gripping him by the hips and moaning in to the kiss within seconds.

“You like this?” murmured Placidus in Achilles’ ear.

“Yes. Gods, yes.”

“Mmm. So do I. You’re something else.” Placidus kissed just behind Achilles’ ear, and nuzzled down the side of his neck. Achilles gasped, hands fisting in Placidus’ tunic.

Placidus laughed softly, and pushed Achilles back into the grass. “Let me show you a few more things you might like, then,” he said.

Achilles had no response but a moan, and for a very long time Placidus had nothing to say either, so there was nothing more than the sound of breaths and moans on the summer air, mingling with the quiet babble of the stream beside them.

Much, much later, when the sun was high in the sky and they were both putting their clothing back into order, Placidus gave Achilles a long, thoughtful look. “You said someone else’s name there, you know. At the end.”

Achilles went instantly scarlet. Fuck. He’d done exactly the wrong thing. How could he even explain calling out Patroclus’ name? “I… I’m sorry, I…”

Placidus chuckled softly. “I don’t mind. You’re not my first, and I’m sure I’m not yours, but… You really are Achilles, aren’t you?”

Achilles looked away. “I wish I wasn’t.”

“Why?” The question was gentle, and when Achilles dared to look back at Placidus, his expression wasn’t fearful or scornful, or any of the other things Achilles had worried about. He looked calmly curious and nothing more.

With a sigh, Achilles said, “I think I said he made the wrong choice. He—I have made all the wrong choices for a very long time now. I thought… I thought perhaps with you I might do something right for once, but I don’t think I have. I keep trying to tell myself you’re not Patroclus, but…”

“But?” Placidus lifted his eyebrows, still merely curious.

“But it’s hard to not believe you are. You… He… I shouldn’t say this. I should not say this, I’m sorry. I’ll just… You should just go. I’m going to do it all wrong again, I just know it.”

Patroclus scoffed. “Achilles… Don’t give up the moment you make a mistake. That’s a foolish thing to do. Mistakes can be corrected.”

“The moment—!” Achilles laughed suddenly; bitter, harsh laughter. “I’ve been trying to find him—to find you!—for centuries now!”

“You…what?!”

Well, he’d fucked it up, he might as well get the whole fuckup over with. How long would it be, he wondered, before he found Pat’s soul again, and could have another try? “You’re Patroclus. Or your soul is. Reincarnated. As far as I know you’re the fifth Patroclus. And every other time I’ve been a complete disaster, and hurt you, or terrified you, or just… Just done something horribly wrong. And here I am, doing it again. I’m sorry. I should know better by now than to call you by his name, but you’re so like him! It was so… It was so like it used to be,” said Achilles brokenly, tears gathering in his eyes. The feeling of the bliss they’d shared, the way Placidus had been, it had all been so like Pat, so perfect, that for a moment all those centuries had been erased and he had been with his lover, the way he hadn’t been since the war.

“Oh, Achilles…” Placidus took his hand and squeezed it gently. “I don’t know what you did those other times, but you haven’t done anything horribly wrong. You called me by your love’s name, that’s hardly the worst possible thing. Though I don’t know about reincarnation. But does it matter? I like you well enough to have done what we just did. I still like you well enough, even if it’s probably madness for a farm boy like me to want to romance an ancient demigod.”

“You—! I…” Achilles stared at Placidus, through vision that still wavered with tears. “You’re not just a farm boy. I know that. You’re so very like him, and he was the best man I ever knew, the real aristos achaion, not me.”

Placidus lifted Achilles’ hand and kissed the palm. “If you say such things to me often enough, I’ll get a swelled head. I’m not sure I believe I’m some old hero reborn, though I suppose I might be. I’m myself now, but hell, if you want to call me Patroclus, I don’t mind. I’ve been called worse things!” He grinned, a brief flash of teeth that was achingly familiar.

“I… But last time… No, no, no, wait, that’s a terrible idea, never mind.” No, no comparing present Patroclus to past. No.

“You seem to be having a hard time of it.”

Achilles wanted to scream. How could Patroclus—could Placidus—be so calm? “Gods! You could say that, yes. But if you really don’t mind me…”

“I do not, though it’s a brief acquaintance, I know. Perhaps things will sour later? Sometimes they do. For now, though, no, not in the least.”

“And I can call you Patroclus if I like?”

“Absolutely. Though if you do it in public you’ll get some strange looks.”

Achilles finally found a small smile, and some small bit of relaxation. He was still certain he was going to do this all wrong, but… “Then thank you, Patroclus.”

Placidus—Patroclus?—leaned in and kissed Achilles sweetly. “I’m afraid I must introduce the mundane to this drama of old heroes, though, for my stomach is growling, and there should be a celebratory luncheon soon. Come with me, why don’t you, and I’ll introduce you to all my relatives. Just as my latest pretty man, not as Achilles the hero, but half of them will be scandalized anyway. Shall we?”

Achilles’ smile widened. That too was definitely his Patroclus’ sense of humor. “I think we shall. And…thank you. However it does turn out, this morning, at least, has been the best morning I’ve had in the last several centuries.”

“See, you’re giving me a swelled head already. The best thing a demi-god’s had in centuries! Well, I’ll see if I can top it next time, but for now, lunch.”

He took Achilles’ hand as they walked back through the woods, and Achilles knew that it was true, today was in fact the best day he’d experienced since, well… In truth since long before the war. Perhaps it would all come to ruin again, but for once he dared to hope that it might not.

“Well, Pat, I guess I’m not a complete fuckup after all,” said Achilles. “Pat. Placidus.” He chuckled softly. “You know everyone had forgotten that was ever your name by the end, though I see they got it right here.” He rubbed his fingers over the memorial inscription, sharply carved and fresh. He hadn’t gone to see the other one, that read PATROCLUS SON OF MENOETIUS, but it would be well worn by now, no doubt. This new carving said PLACIDUS, SON OF CLAUDIUS and under it WELL BELOVED BY ALL.

Achilles traced his fingers over “BELOVED” several times and sighed. All the other mourners had long since gone, but he didn’t know what to do with himself now. A lifetime—a true lifetime this time, not one cut short by war and Achilles’ own foolishness—together had seemed far too short, and yet at the same time, it felt like he had never lived any other way, and now he couldn’t figure out what to do without Patroclus at his side.

“Well, I suppose I’d best go wandering again. I wonder where your soul will go this time, and if I’ll find it in this life? I hope I will, but, well… You taught me a lot this time around, and I think I’ll do better next time. I guess I’ll find out. Thank you for everything, Placidus. You were my Patroclus, but you were your own man too, and I loved you all the more for it.” He kissed the stone, then rose and walked away to begin searching again.

“Mother! I’m not a child, I can take care of myself.” Pulcheria scowled, but did her best to not pout childishly. She was twenty-one years old, and perfectly capable of going out to the market by herself.

“But there are men out there!”

“Yes, I had in fact noticed that roughly half the population have dicks,” snapped Pulcheria.

“Pulcheria!” Her mother gasped, scandalized.

“Oh, don’t be like that. God, mother. I have brothers, you know. You’d better know, since they’re supposed to be yours! I’ve seen what men have between their legs. Don’t worry, I also know to knee one there if he lays a hand on me. So no, I’m not waiting for an escort. It’s not as if we live in a slum, and it’s not even dinnertime.” She glared at her mother, who glared back, but didn’t say anything further.

Pulcheria swept past her, snatching up her purse and securing it around her waist, tucking it under the sash that belted her dress so that it wouldn’t be easily stolen, and strode out into the courtyard of their house, and from there out the front gate to the street.

The market was a good mile away, but Pulcheria had no trouble traversing that distance and more on her own two feet. She might be only a Chartoularios’ daughter, but she wasn’t going to be an idle lady. Even aside from the usual tasks of spinning and weaving that all women of nearly all rank did, she liked to be active. Idleness didn’t suit her at all. She clashed with her mother over far more than going to the market alone, given that she wanted to do many of the same things her brothers did. Her father indulged her enough that she’d learned how to ride and to shoot and could handle a falcon, but had drawn the line at sword-fighting, alas.

Still, she knew what to do with the dagger at her belt if she had to, and could hit an apple across the courtyard of her home when throwing it. So she wasn’t at all worried about men.

Hell, she’d like to meet a nice one! She was old enough she’d had suitors, but they’d mostly been the children of her parents’ friends and she hadn’t liked any of them. She wanted a man who could keep up with her, and one who wouldn’t insist on treating her like she was feeble-minded because of her sex. Surely there had to be someone like that out there somewhere?

She reached the market, and put her gripes about men and her mother out of her head, dedicating herself to looking at absolutely everything for sale. Eventually she ended up at a ribbon seller. Perhaps she’d buy some ribbon and trim her new green dress with something bright? The color suited her nicely, but it was so plain. Just because she liked being practical didn’t mean she couldn’t be pretty too!

Sorting through the ribbon vendor’s wares, she accidentally bumped a bundle of them, knocking them to the ground. Before she could even think of bending over, a man had darted in—he was astonishingly fast—and picked them up. “Here you are, my lady,” he said, with a small smile.

“Oh. Ah, thank you.”

“They’re lovely. I’ve thought, sometimes, of tying my own hair back with one, even though it’s not much done these days,” said the man, and that, rather than the inane compliment on her own looks that she expected from upper class men, drew Pulcheria’s attention to the stranger.

He was, in fact, beautiful. One could say handsome, but one could say beautiful, too. She found herself thinking that his long, curling, golden hair would indeed look lovely tied up in a ribbon or perhaps done in a braid. He wore a simple tunic, but it was of blue fabric, still bright and not secondhand, so not cheap, and trimmed with a golden yellow that set off his hair, while the blue brought out his eyes wonderfully. He was tall, quite a lot taller than she was, and his face was perfectly even, with a pointed chin that was nearly feminine, the long lashes framing his pale eyes beautiful too, but his shoulders were broad and strong, and his broad hands looked as though they’d certainly used the sword strapped at his waist.

“My lady?”

Pulcheria jumped, realizing she’d been staring, and flushed. “Oh my. Uhm. Thank you, sir. I’m Pulcheria.”

“Achilles, at your service.” He gave a small half-bow.

“Huh. That’s an odd name.”

“It’s Greek, which is where I hail from.”

“Oh! I’ve never been to Greece. Although I’ve read some stories from there, but they’re all old.”

Achilles smiled. “Yes, the glory days of Greece are all in the past. Glory is overrated, though, so I don’t mind that.”

“What brings you to Constantinople, then?”

“Nothing much, truly. I am a bastard son, so I wander where I please. Eventually I’ll find someone who needs my skills and settle down somewhere. Perhaps it will be here, I’m certain there are some families of status worth bothering with in all this mass of humanity.” He gave her a wry smile, inviting her to share the joke, and Pulcheria laughed.

“One or two, perhaps, out of all of them.”

“And is your family among them?”

Pulcheria shrugged. It wouldn’t do to bad-mouth her family to a stranger, and they were well enough. God above he was good-looking, though. And charming, and not speaking to her like she was a child, so he was already above most of the young men she’d dealt with.

“I’ll leave you to your shopping, my lady,” he said with another bow, “but I will also hope to see you again soon.”

Then he was gone into the crowd, leaving her staring after him.

She ended up buying two lots of ribbon. One would go well with her green dress, but she thought the other would look good with Achilles’ blue and gold. It was very silly, but all the same she couldn’t help but want to weave it into his hair for him someday. He probably wouldn’t actually let her, and anyway she probably wouldn’t see him again, but she found herself running the ribbon through her fingers frequently all the same.

When Pulcheria came down for breakfast the next morning, she found Achilles sitting in the dining room, at the lower table, with the other house servants. Her father must have noticed her stares, for he chuckled and said, “Like the looks of the newest tutor, my dear?”

“Ah. Yes. I guess I do.”

“Well, young people will be young people, but don’t do anything too foolish. He’s very good, I’d hate to have to fire him if he broke your heart or got you with child before wedding you.”

Pulcheria blinked at her father, then laughed. “I’ll be good, father. But are you saying that if I did end up wanting to marry him, I’d have your blessing? Marrying servants isn’t done.”

“He’s of royal blood, my dear, just on the distaff side. It’s not the sort of match your mother dreams of, but the emperor’s sons are all married already.” He winked at her and she laughed again.

“Thank you, father,” she replied.

She fortunately was able to run into Achilles almost immediately that afternoon, as she was sitting in the courtyard spinning. The motion of twisting thread was nearly automatic, so her attention was on the butterfly whose flitting course took it all around the flowers planted in the raised beds there.

“They’re lovely things, aren’t they?” said a warm, husky voice behind her, and Pulcheria turned to see Achilles.

“I suppose next you say I’m even more lovely?” The biting answer was nearly automatic.

He laughed. “It wouldn’t be a lie. But I suspect I might be in trouble if I flirt too much with my employer’s daughter.”

“Oh, my father won’t mind, it’s my mother who’s the trouble. But she’ll be trouble no matter what I do.” Pulcheria smiled. “So my father said you were a tutor, but never said what your subject is.”

“A little bit of everything, but mostly history. It’s an…interest of mine. Greek history in particular, of course, since that’s my home, but I’ve traveled a great deal, and collected bits of history from all over the world.”

“Oh! Well, that’s much more interesting than I’d feared. I’m glad you don’t teach deportment or something boring like that.”

“No, I’m afraid I am not always terribly good at courtly manners, though I do my best. I was a soldier, briefly, so I’m still a bit rough around the edges sometimes.”

Pulcheria felt her interest leaping immediately. “Did you actually fight, then?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Was it… What was it like? Fighting is the one thing Father won’t let me learn.”

Achilles was silent for a long time. Finally he said, “It’s like too many things to sum up briefly. It’s a rush. It is glory, sometimes. It’s horror, other times. It’s grief, and mourning, and sorrow, for people die in wars. Someone will always mourn. Someone will be victorious, too, and reap the spoils. Going into a war certain that you’ll be the victor is folly, though. Going into a war certain of anything is. I…”

He trailed off with a soft sigh. Pulcheria was almost afraid to ask, but finally she couldn’t resist. “Achilles? What is it?”

“I thought I would die. And then I lived, and someone I loved died, and that was worse.”

“Oh.” Pulcheria looked at Achilles. His eyes were distant, seeing some other place, or some other person. A moment later they focused on her, though, and he smiled.

“I am here now. And you are here now too. That’s more important than old battles.” He took a step closer. With him nearly close enough to touch, Pulcheria thought of how tall he was, and an odd little shiver went through her. Achilles looked down at her for a long moment. Then he dropped gracefully to one knee and took her hand in his, kissing the back of it. It sent an even stronger shiver through her, one that seemed to go straight to between her legs.

“I…” She looked at him, not knowing what to do. She’d always taken charge of everything in her life, but she had no map for this moment, no course to follow.

“My lady. I hope I don’t presume. But you are beautiful, and more than that, you seem intelligent and capable too. Unfortunately I must go now, but I will see you tomorrow for your lessons.”

“Yes, of course.”

He rose and walked away, and Pulcheria stared into space after him, her fingers forgetting to turn the spindle for a long time.

Achilles pulled his tunic over his head, fingers smoothing the fine fabric. Then with a sigh he pulled on his trousers. He would never quite get used to dressing like a barbarian, but going bare-legged in even the longest of tunics simply wasn’t done anymore. The boots also felt far more confining than sandals.

Just one of countless ways that modern life seemed odd. Achilles knew how to blend in, here in Constantinople, but it felt sometimes like some other world entirely. The “great” city of Troy was a tiny village compared to this modern metropolis, and someone with as fine a house and as much wealth as Pulcheria’s father would have been a king in Greece of old, not a minor functionary in the vast bureaucracy of the Byzantine Empire.

Even stranger than all that, though, was seeing Patroclus as a woman.

Pulcheria was definitely Pat. There was no question of that. The soul-to-soul tug he’d always been able to follow led to her, and having met her, Achilles could see a great deal of him in her. Yet it was beyond bizarre all the same.

He’d never been attracted to women. He wasn’t certain why he’d begun flirting with Pulcheria, whenever he thought about it, it made no sense. Now that he had, though, he felt stuck with it. He couldn’t bear to simply leave, and she was obviously attracted to him, so trying to navigate remaining only friends seemed both difficult and painful for both of them. And yet what would he do, if she wanted more than mere flirtations?

Achilles shrugged that thought off. He’d deal with it when he got there. For now it was time to begin his day. There would be porridge served in the great hall, and after having breakfast he’d have an hour or so to prepare his lesson before teaching the children—including Pulcheria and her older brother Allectus, who were both adults, but still included.

As he left his room, Pulcheria’s mother, drawn up haughtily and still a full head shorter than he, swept down the hall. She halted in front of Achilles and gave him a frigid look. “You are the new tutor?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Do you understand your place in this household, young man?”

Achilles tried not to smile at “young,” and merely nodded. “Of course, my lady. I have been hired to serve your family.”

“Yes. Don’t get above your station.”

“Of course not, my lady,” said Achilles, lying through his teeth.

“Good.” She swept past him, leaving Achilles smiling wryly. He’d seen her sort many times by now. His own mother had been a bit like that, concerned about station and propriety. It never accomplished much when set against the desires of young people.

After a breakfast during which he was very aware of Pulcheria’s interested gaze, and of her mother’s icy glare, and a prep period where herding his thoughts back to the lesson was harder than it should be, Achilles arrived in the library, to find five people waiting for him.

Pulcheria was there, and her older brother, both definitely adults. The three younger brothers were still children, the oldest barely fourteen, a significant gap between Pulcheria and them. He’d known that, and prepared accordingly, but thank all the gods it was only five of them, a class this different with more students would have been madness.

“Hello. My name is Achilles. If you’ve heard the story of the Trojan war, yes, I was named after him. But we are going to begin our dive into history far before that, with the creation of the world. So, rather than bore you all, why don’t we see who knows how that story goes? Can one of you tell me?”

Pulcheria’s next youngest sibling volunteered, and immediately launched into a Biblical account of the creation of the world. Achilles smiled and nodded along. It wasn’t the story he’d been raised with, but he’d had to become flexible about such things, as the religion he’d grown up with had faded and nearly vanished. He knew the gods of his youth were real, he’d met some of them! He had no such knowledge of Christianity. But being branded a heathen wouldn’t help him, so he let the young man tell the story, and picked up from there, relating the earliest accounts of history he knew. When the lesson was done, he assigned the older two some research, and the younger to write a story set in ancient times. Then he dismissed the oddly-assorted class. But when her brothers had all gone, Pulcheria stayed behind.

“I, ah…” She looked at him, frowning.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I don’t know. I feel…strange about you.”

“Strange how?” asked Achilles.

“Like… I don’t know! Like I should… No. I don’t know! Like you are… Somebody I know? That’s not right either.” She scowled. “Like you’re a lodestone and I’m iron, for one thing. It’s silly! I’ve seen handsome men, and it’s not that. But also like I… Augh! I can’t put it into words. I had a dream last night, where the story you told me about war was real, and I died! But why would I be a soldier in a war? That makes no sense.”

Achilles felt a stab through the heart. Oh, Patroclus, he wanted to say. You were a soldier, and you did die, and I mourned you so deeply I tried to end the world and myself with it. He couldn’t say any of that, though. Instead he said, “Have you ever felt you should have been someone else, before this?”

“I don’t know. A bit, I suppose. I’ve felt like I should have been another brother, sometimes, but I think that’s just envy. They get to do all the things I don’t!”

“That’s understandable. You seem at least as capable as they are.”

Pulcheria scowled. “I don’t know. Maybe. If they’d let me be.”

Achilles couldn’t help himself. He reached out and took her hand. “I know you’ve been young and powerless, but you’re learning and growing all the time. You don’t have to wait for your family to let you be great. You can be great on your own. I’ll teach you anything you want.”

She blinked at him. “What, even how to use a sword?”

“Yes. Though I suggest starting with a short spear. It’s more practical.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, not at all. We’ll have to find time away from here, your mother will be…unhappy if she sees us, but if you know of a place with a little privacy, outside, with room to spar… Absolutely. Absolutely. You’re more than capable of it, I’m certain.”

Suddenly Pulcheria flung her arms around Achilles, hugging him tightly. He felt his heart racing, and had to resist the urge to kiss her. “Thank you so much!” she said, and kissed his cheek as she hugged him tightly.

“I only want to help you be the best self you can be,” he said gently.

“Well, but you have no reason to. So…thank you still! I’ll find a place I swear I will. I want to learn!” Then she had let go and was running out of the room.

Achilles stared after her, shocked. The urge to kiss her had caught him by surprise. Perhaps her being a woman didn’t matter that much after all. She was his Patroclus, whatever or whoever else she might be. That same bright, eager, irrepressible soul. And already he loved her all over again.

“Ah, love. Have you heard the news?” Pat—Piers, in this life—enfolded Achilles in an embrace. Achilles hugged him back, hearing the worried tone in his voice.

“No, I hadn’t. What is it?”

“The plague. You know the city has been suffering from it, but Widow Elegans has it. It’s here now.”

Achilles felt his gut twist. Gods. He’d seen Patroclus die so many times, but knowing he himself was immortal sometimes felt unfair. He didn’t have to worry, no disease could touch him. Ordinary sickness paled in compared to the horror that was Bubonic Plague, though. So many died of it. He’d gone to the city, last year, the final trip he’d been willing to take, and already the place had been a nightmare. He’d hoped it wouldn’t reach this little town in the French countryside, but it seemed it had. He didn’t know what to do, though. He could protect Patroclus from attack, but how to protect him from something invisible? There were ideas about how it spread, everything from cats to the scent of bad air, but nobody knew for certain, and Achilles was certainly no physician.

He should have learned. Over so many lives he’d picked up countless different skills. He should have learned healing. He knew a few things, but half of those were things he’d learned from Chiron, so long ago that the world now seemed like another world entirely. There were no centaurs anymore, or if there were, they were well hidden. No fauns, no dryads, and none of the gods Achilles knew. Christianity seemed to rule all the world, and Achilles had bowed to it, however reluctantly. Piers wasn’t especially devout, but they both attended Sunday church, as everyone in the village did.

No blessing of Apollo could be called on to heal, and the Christian god’s blessings seemed even more fickle than those of the gods of old. Achilles couldn’t count on piety to save them, even if they’d been pious.

Surely it would be well, though? Surely. Patroclus was young, strong, and healthy. They’d barely gotten together in this life. Surely he would survive the sickness if he caught it.

He had to believe that. What else could he do but believe it?

So he went about his life, and tried to put the illness out of his mind.

He and Piers lived together, two confirmed bachelors helping each other out, as far as anyone knew officially. Their union would not be blessed by the church, but it was understood by the villagers. There were a few other such arrangements in town, spinster women keeping company, and those who chose to live alone rather than marry. Piers and Achilles were well-liked enough to not have to worry about the church, at least. Even the priest liked them, and they made certain to tithe generously and turn up every Sunday. Piers’ status in town helped, too.

He was a smith, strong and tall, his figure broad and well-muscled beyond belief. They were of a height, but he could pick up Achilles without even trying, and did often when they made love. Achilles helped him as much as he could, but his main contribution was hunting, his skill with bow, sling, and snares enough to keep them in meat, while Piers’ work bought them grain and whatever else they might need.

Life went on without change for a time, but one by one, villagers began to fall ill. Widow Elegans died of it a week after catching the plague, and by then a dozen villagers were sick, mostly people close to the widow, but some who’d had no contact with her at all. Achilles almost wanted to take Piers and flee, go live in the woods, away from everyone, avoid this scourge. He knew Piers wouldn’t go, though. Before long there were more sick people than those able or willing to care for them, and soon both he and Piers were helping overwhelmed and fearful families nurse the sick. Achilles didn’t have to fear for himself, but he worried and fretted every day about Piers.

Finally the inevitable happened.

Piers denied the fever and chills at first, continuing to help those sicker than he, but eventually he was bedbound, too weak to rise, with the painful swelling in his armpits and neck that characterized the plague, removing all hope that he’d caught some other, lesser illness.

He insisted Achilles keep helping others, and Achilles gave in, despite the temptation to spend every second at his beloved’s bedside. So he wasn’t there to see Piers’ final breath, he merely returned one night after hours at the bedside of a sick child, trying to soothe her fever as best he could, to find Piers cold and still in their bed.

Achilles knelt beside the bed, as he had so many times before, and kissed Piers, his Patroclus, on his cold lips one last time, then set about doing what must be done.

It was a mass grave this time, but it wasn’t as though Achilles didn’t have countless headstones and grave markers to return to, if he wished. He merely helped dig the great pit, and did what he could to comfort the other mourners.

Much later, when the plague had finally finished its deadly sweep, Achilles left, to search for Patroclus again, but also to find a teacher. It was time to add medicine to his list of skills. He might be used to seeing his beloved die, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight Thanatos himself if he could on his love’s behalf.

“Doctor Pelides!”

The familiar voice called out a warm greeting, but Achilles raised his hand and said, “Ah, ah, ah, I am unrecognizable, a mysterious stranger you’ve never met before.” He winked at Sir Peter Wright from inside his helmet. He’d been unable to resist, when he’d found the “Greek warrior” costume. It wasn’t remotely accurate, half the gear was Roman, not Greek, and the leggings felt almost offensive, but he supposed propriety did demand. The helmet was almost accurate, though, for all it was nearly as thin as foil. It felt very odd to be looking at the world through the narrow slit of it again after all these centuries.

“Oh, of course, stranger.” Peter, Patroclus’ latest incarnation, was dressed in a blue and green suit, trimmed with a huge amount of frothy white lace, and with a half-cape draped in what looked like a fishing net. His mask was covered in sea-shells and textured like fish scales.

Achilles looked at him curiously. “So… Are you dressed as the ocean, then?”

“I’m Poseidon,” he said, grinning. “Mary, I mean the mysterious, lovely naiad over there, has my trident.” He gestured with the hand that held a glass of wine to a woman who was in a gown made from the same blue and green fabric, also trimmed in white, and with a mask decorated with faux pond lilies. She did indeed have a gaudy golden trident in one hand, and was holding it out to another woman, who seemed to be dressed as Cleopatra. “She’s very proud of having made it herself, so she wanted to show it off.”

“Ah. So we’re both Greek this evening.” Achilles smiled, feeling an odd sort of nostalgia.

“Indeed, stranger. You inspired me, given that you’re Greek all the time.”

Achilles chuckled. “I’m happy to have helped, then.” He took a sip from his own wine glass, then asked, “So how is little Artie doing?”

“He’s started teething, and is driving his nanny to distraction, not to mention the rest of us. I’ve inflicted him on her entirely tonight, of course. I couldn’t miss this, but I was up late with him last night, the poor little thing. Still, that’s just part of life, isn’t it? One has to suffer a bit just to get into the world, and no one is entirely free of it after, either.”

Achilles’ smile turned melancholy. “Very true.”

Peter looked out across the room, to the dance floor. He frowned. “I suppose it would be a terrible scandal if you and I shared a dance.”

Achilles put his hand on Peter’s arm. “Unfortunately yes. If this were a more bohemian party, perhaps, but Lord Godfrey’s ball? No, it would be the talk of the town tomorrow. You should go dance with your wife, though. Don’t let me keep you from enjoying yourself. It looks like she’s done showing off your trident, but I’ll hold it for you while you dance, if you like.”

“I…” Peter looked at Achilles for a long time, then nodded. “You’re better than I deserve, you know.”

Achilles shook his head. “Not remotely. But go on. I’ll be here when you’re done.” He smiled at Peter. “I’ll always be here, I promise.”

“You are better than I deserve. Thank you.” He smiled, then turned to where Mary was still chatting with Cleopatra. He held his hand out to her, and she greeted him with a fond embrace and a quick, chaste kiss.

Achilles gave a mock-salute and took the trident as the pair walked past him to the dance floor, then watched as they began to move together across it. They made a beautiful couple even when they weren’t in matching outfits. He knew, given current mores, that being in a public relationship with Peter was impossible, but if Mary hadn’t been there, Achilles might have seriously considered trying to live as Pyrrha full time. He’d done it before, though it might be a little harder now. Then again, the full-body nature of current women’s fashion would make some things easier.

But it would be nearly as much of a scandal for Sir Peter to be caught seeing another woman as seeing a man, so instead Achilles was the family friend, little Arthur’s unofficial uncle, who visited often, and every now and then managed to have a moment alone with the loving husband and father, whose wife, all possible gods bless her, knew and didn’t mind.

A younger Achilles would have been driven mad by having only this tiny taste of his love. Yet by now Achilles had learned near-infinite patience.

More than that, though.

He had learned that whatever life he found his Patroclus living, whatever place he might be born to, he would always love Achilles in whatever way he could.

Patrick King stepped into the bar’s airlock, pulling his mask off and combing his fingers through his beard to smooth out the lines from where the straps and oxygen feed tube had matted it down. Air whirred around him, blowing the red Martian dust off of his coverall, the tang of it hanging, acrid and all-pervasive, in the air. The other door’s indicator turned green, and it slid open, letting Pat into the dim, low room within. A few round porthole windows showed the outside, mostly red but with patches of dull green here and there. The terraforming project had a long way to go yet; Pat would be working on it his whole life, but his grandchildren might see real green, and open water, and be able to go out without a mask, someday.

It was a satisfying job, his happiness tempered only by the fact that despite making absolute bank and being quite a catch, if he said so himself, he was currently single. Admittedly he was a little too busy to spend much time pursuing dating, but the dating pool was more than enough for him, given he was bisexual and polyamorous, so in theory it included every single person on Mars.

Pat chuckled at himself and sat down at the bar. The robot tender slid an order pad in front of him, and he perused the selection. Not much variety, there weren’t that many local breweries, and importing from Earth was expensive, but he found a tolerable beer and ordered it, along with a shot of what he knew was a very nice local gin.

“Come here often, stranger?” said a voice from beside him, and Pat looked up, snapped from his focus on post-work relaxation by the warm, husky sound of it. He found himself looking at the prettiest damn man he’d ever seen in his life, and he had an instant thought about maybe not being single much longer, if he had his way about it. The stranger had long, wavy, golden hair—impractical here on Mars, but no more so than Pat’s beard—and startling sea-green eyes, in a face that was fine-featured and nearly feminine, but with the broad shoulders and fit look of a dedicated athlete.

“I just rolled into town with the agricultural team,” said Pat. “Name’s Patrick.” He held out his hand.

The other man took it in a firm, warm grip. “Achilles. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, very nice indeed,” said Pat, giving Achilles a flirtatious wink, just to see where it got him.

“Why Patrick! If I didn’t know better, which I suppose I don’t since we just met, I’d say you were flirting with me!” Achilles grinned at him.

Pat laughed. “Call me Pat. And I absolutely am. Shall I buy you a drink, too?”

“I’m good.” Achilles lifted a sturdy plastic tankard full of amber liquid.

“You’re good looking, at least.”

“And you seem to be a shameless flirt.” Achilles leaned closer to Patrick, obviously not minding.

Pat leaned back, their shoulders nearly touching. “Shame isn’t any fun at all,” he said, and when Achilles laughed, and put his hand on Pat’s arm as he responded, Pat thought that his immediate future, at least, was suddenly looking much nicer, and much less lonely than it had been.