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“And perhaps it is the greatest grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.”
Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles
Patroclus
It was a strange word, happiness. It held baggage both good and bad. The word itself would bring joy to the hearts of those that said it. It was something so full, yet so empty.
For Patroclus, this word hadn’t been one he’d felt in a long time. The echo of his past, of his battles, of his pain, were still fresh in his mind. It hurt to think about some things, about Achilles mostly. Thinking about him caused loneliness to swell in his chest. He was just a ghostly figure, sitting beside the grave that carried them both but only held one name. He stayed by the grave as it was as close as he’d been to his lover in a long time.
He couldn’t leave, and he found no need to. Sitting here watching as people visited, watching as they came for Achilles and Achilles alone. Perhaps some of them knew that Patroclus lay intertwined with the Aristos Achaion , what was left of their bodies melding together. He stayed there as the seasons changed, but he didn’t mind.
As he sat, his mind would wander and be filled with the gentle whispers and caresses, he couldn’t help but crave. He glanced to his side at the words etched in the hard surface. He reached out a ghostly hand, the hard stone the only touches he can give to his lover now. A soft smile graced his lips. Wherever he was, Achilles would be happy. (He ignored a part inside of him that longed to be beside him, longed for his touch—)
Even in death, Patroclus could still feel the warmth of their bodies as they lay beside one another. But this time, it was only his imagination.
He had no doubt that Achilles would be upset with him were they to see each other again. Patroclus would give anything to be wrapped once again in those strong arms. He couldn’t dream, but if he could they’d be filled with the memories and the sensations the other brought. They’d be filled with the touches they’d exchange in the comfort of their bed. ( Their bed. Not anyone else's.) They’d be filled with their time before the battlefield, before clawed hands reached out and took them away. Filled with laughter and teenage troubles that seemed like miles away now.
They’d been sixteen, he remembers, when they’d first joined. When they’d first began their travels towards the battlefield, towards the manhood heroes or soldiers would speak of. When they’d taken their first steps towards joining the tales of the heroes, before becoming another one of those stories. Just another lesson to teach the children, just another person to inspire them. (Patroclus didn’t quite understand how that would inspire young children, it wasn’t anything particularly moving about death or battles. At least to him.)
Now they were far apart, a distance that was unknown to them both. It could take days or even years until they see each other again. Or maybe, they never will.
Patroclus would often speak while he sat beside the gravestone. He spoke of nothing in particular, the weather, the passing animals. He’d even speak to Achilles, though he knew there’d be no response except for the single name engraved upon the stone.
“Guess what I’m thinking about.” Patroclus would whisper. His eyes would trail over to the stone next to him and imagine Achilles seated beside him in all his glory. He’d see the soft smile that would grace his lips and the way he’d tilt his head up to the sky, letting the breeze ruffle his hair.
“What are you thinking about?” He’d reply.
“Remember when you told me I was the reason you’d be happy? It seems strange now that I think about it. Perhaps you were happy. Perhaps you did feel joy. But in the end, you’ve joined the long line of heroes who weren’t. I suppose in a way, your happiness has come to a halt. I’m no longer by your side. I made you sad before you joined the Underworld. I watched as you wept over my body. As you clung to me as though I was the last shred of hope you had left. I wish that I could have felt you then in those moments. I wish I could have spoken to you. I wish I could have made you laugh or smile. But instead I had to watch you crumble from within. Perhaps that is my punishment for what I did, for killing that boy, for killing Sarpedon. A punishment to watch as you fell to the earth, took your last breath. A punishment to see you slowly fall apart clinging to my limp, cold body. A punishment to be separated from you forever when we wanted to be as one even in death.” Patroclus turned his head to the sky, watching the clouds roll over and the birds flying free.
He wonders what it would be like to be a bird. To fly high, to fly free. To let the wind ruffle his feathers. He wonders what it’d be like to fly beside Achilles. The birds are not always free though, there are still restrictions placed upon them by themselves, by the gods. It’s as if the whole entire world is at their disposal but they can only see a portion of it. Patroclus feels as though that applies to all creatures that grace the earth. They can wander all they like, but they will never be able to truly travel and see it all. Even as the dead, Patroclus could not leave. Perhaps that was punishment as well.
Patroclus often finds his thoughts wandering to the people of his past life. The boy he knew before he had been exiled. (There was distance between himself and the boy as well. Distance that was separated by high seas of turbulent waters, sharp spears and valleys that held unknown dangers.) His thoughts go to his mother and her fascination with music. (He could still see her leaning ever so closely towards the musician, eyes filled with keen interest, watching their fingers dance across the strings.) His thoughts are mixed with the harsh gaze of his father. (The disapproval that lay in them as he watched him go about his day. The look that had been given when the dead boy had been found.) Unwillingly, he finds himself thinking of the boy. (His lifeless face upon the grassy hill, the hill that shouldn’t have rocks but did. The open part of the boy’s head that spilled a strange mush, the boy’s brain. In those moments, Patroclus can feel the dice clenched in his hand, the dice that caused this. The dice that changed his world, his family. )
It isn’t often that Patoclus lets his thoughts wander towards those moments. (The moments with the boy and with his father. The moments before he became Achilles’ friend, his companion, and eventually his lover.) He doesn’t always like to go back to that time, there was too much baggage left behind and not enough time to go through it all. (But now he had all the time in the world.)
Odysseus would often visit the grave, accompanied by others such as Automedon and Achilles’ son, Pyrrhus (who’s only there to speak to one). He’d speak of events and give words of respect and offering. Patroclus remembers when he told them of Ajax’s death. Sorrow rose in his chest at the loss of his friend. (Perhaps the two had seen each other in the Underworld. Perhaps that was who accompanied him now.)
He’d remember the story of Hercules at that moment. The tale of his descent into madness. Patroclus began to understand what Achilles had meant. Happiness doesn’t come with being famous. As a hero, you’re tasked with committing wonderful deeds and winning wars. No one cared if you were happy or not. Ajax definitely wasn’t one of the happy ones.
“Patroclus.” Odysseus said. (It wasn’t how Achilles would speak it, as if it meant the world to him. As if he’d go about his life saying only his name and be happy. Pa-tro-clus. ) “I do not know if you can hear me. Nor if you made it to the Underworld.” I have not. And it aches my heart. “But I hope you have. I heard his cries and pleads for you.” I heard them too. “He would rather lose his honor and all he could ever have to be by your side.” ( He’d used the word hubris , like I had done before. ) I know he would. Odysseus sighed, head turning towards the two that stood far away. “I wish I could’ve steered Pyrrhus towards letting your name be etched in stone beside Achilles’. I will try and convince him. You do not deserve to be parted.”
( Being parted from him felt as though a piece was missing. A large part that became wider and wider as time continued, as the distance became bigger. )
It’s something normal to open your heart to a person unconditionally. To be enveloped in this person both physically and mentally, as they are sewn into your life. The threads of each of your destinies becoming intertwined by the Fates. The destinies of heroes and their wives. The destinies of the gods. The destiny of Achilles and Patroclus.
Their strings had been tied before they’d ever met. Connecting them, holding them. They are like soulmates. Destined to be together in both life and death. Destined to share their breaths through it all and share their pain. Soulmates that at this moment, weren’t together. Soulmates that were torn apart by the war and the judgement of others. Soulmates that would only be known as friends, despite the touches they’d share behind doors. But they wouldn’t always be like that. They’d reconnect, the threads, now ghostly, would lock back together. Tied with a knot that would never break. Mingling together as their breaths had once done, sharing those touches once again. In perfect harmony. The symphony of their voices would carry through the world to be heard by all as they called each other’s names.
(“ Achilles!” I’d call, voice shrill with excitement.
“Patroclus!” He’d call, desperation leaking into the undertones of the name. )
They open their hearts, they open their minds, they open their souls. And as one they move. And as one they breathe. And as one they will be forever. They are soulmates, no matter how much the world tries to push them apart. (And they wouldn’t change that for anything.)
Achilles has always been a part of Patroclus’ life. Even when he wasn’t actually there like he had been after. (After the murder. After the exile. After he’d been abandoned. After—) There had always been this sense of strangeness in the air when the conversations of the future came up. As if his future that was being shaped by his father wasn’t the right one (it hadn’t been). But when he saw Achilles for the first time, he felt a sense of right rush through him.
(“ Patroclus.” He’d speak my name so clearly, as if he was meant to. As if my name was something precious, something special. A treasure so rare, a treasure that only he got to experience.)
It had felt right to be beside Achilles. It had felt right when Patroclus had pressed his lips against the others in a fleeting decision. It had felt right when they’d tumbled on the bed hidden from the prying eyes of Achilles’ mother.
In all his life, nothing had felt so perfect then those moments with Achilles. It was as though he’d finally been found, having been spending most of his life lost in the folds of time and expectations. He was found, but now he was lost. He was lost from himself, from others, from purpose. He was floating aimlessly around the grave, his entire being attached to this piece of land that he could never leave. His only friends in the earthworms that would appear at his translucent feet and in the birds that flew over his head.
Achilles
It was boring in the Underworld, there was no one to sleep beside, no one to hold, no Patroclus. Achilles could have sworn he’d told the others to bury them together, to write their names on the stone as closely as they themselves had been. He expected to see him here, beside the others that he knew, that they knew. Telling jokes, laughing, smiling. But there was nothing. There was only silence. In his heart, in his mind, in his drifting soul. If he could, Achilles would crawl up from under the ground and search for his lover. He’d scour the lands up and down. But he couldn’t.
(We were going to grow old together. But now you’re up there, and I’m down here. Separated by thousands of stadions.)
Somewhere up there was Patroclus, his soul bound to a part of the earth, unable to leave, to move. The thought caused anger to rise in Achilles’ chest. Who had dared to cause his love this unwarranted pain? If he could cry, Achilles would have shed enough tears to create an ocean by now. He would have begged by now, begged the gods, begged anyone to be up there. To be beside his Patroclus and never leave again. He didn’t care if they were bound to a patch of earth. It didn’t matter how big or small, as long as he had Patroclus by his side, Achilles felt as though he could achieve anything.
He walked aimlessly through the plains, his mind filled with images of Patroclus. (Of his cold body that had laid beside him. Blood caking his hair, the fur beneath their skin. Achilles’ hand gripping the other’s chest, wishing that the heart within would beat once more.) He’d see him by the beach, hair rustling in the gentle breeze. The smell of sea salt on his tongue. The sun would strike the other’s features, illuminating him with golden light, like he was a god. (Patroclus was a god in Achilles’ eyes. One of kindness, one of joy, one of forgiveness. If either of them were to become one, it would be Patroclus.)
(He remembers when Patroclus asked him if he wanted to be a god. And he’d responded, “Not yet” . What he’d give to be a god at this moment, a god beside his lover.)
Together they’d watch the sea, watch the waves crash on the shore. They’d speak of nothing and everything, as words were not always needed when they were together.
Achilles needed Patroclus and Patroclus needed Achilles. They will forever need one another, to calm the storms that raged inside them, to bring them joy. To fill each other with happiness and love. To warm each other in body, mind and soul.
The memories would hit him in waves, all at once or one by one. Sometimes it wouldn’t be images but sensations, feelings, emotions. Like a random burst in his chest. Or the taste of his skin.
( “I swear it.” Achilles could hear Patroclus say. His lover, his happiness, gazed into his eyes. How odd it seemed now that his happiness had left him. Was this some sort of punishment from the gods? )
He’d remember his father. The kind words, kind touches, the stories he’d share. He’d remember what it was like before Patroclus became an integral part of his life. Before his thoughts would gravitate towards him.
(He wishes now that he could hug his father, wrap his arms around him. Thank him for everything he’s done. But it was too late. Their last goodbye is still fresh on his lips. )
He’d remember his mother. Her harsh gazes matched with spear-like words. He’d remember her soft touches and forcing opinions.
(He wishes he had been close with her. He wishes she hadn’t been so harsh. He wishes he could speak to her one last time.)
Achilles remembers what it was like to die. What it felt like, passing through a watery veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead. He remembers going across in a boat, appearing on the other side to receive judgement. Most of all, he remembers how alone he felt when he’d opened his eyes.
(Had this been what Patroclus felt when he’d left to go train? This sense of emptiness. Of having the warmth from your body taken from you, leaving you disoriented and freezing.)
Now he finds himself seated near other heroes from the stories his father would tell. He was one of them now. He was a hero. (But he wasn’t really.) He finds himself filled with sadness and surrounded by coldness. He listens to the others around him laugh and chatter, their voices muffled in Achilles’ ears. He didn’t have a reason to really listen, to share his own story. (Would they even listen to one like his? One where he too lost his mind to the madness that plagued all heroes. He hadn’t wanted to, but perhaps that was destiny. Fuck destiny. )
When he wasn’t sitting in one spot, Achilles would walk around. He’d pass those he didn’t know, those he heard of and those he’d once known. He’d venture as far as he could go, always returning to the same spot once again. He’d ignore the people who danced and laughed around him. Perhaps he was meant to sit here and slowly fade away, slowly rot from the inside. Perhaps this was what the millennia he’d spend down here would look like. Lonely. Sad. (It’s what he deserves. What Patroclus didn’t.)
He wasn’t sure how long it’s been. (Days? Weeks? Months? Years?) How long he’d floated around, listening to the same stories, the same laughs, the same conversations. The Underworld was boring, boring without Patroclus there. Boring without him there to entertain him.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of dark brown hair. He sat up from his seat ignoring the strange looks that were sent his way. He stood on his tiptoes to get a better look. Achilles felt his chest tighten, his eyes widening. It couldn’t be. After all this time. His eyes had deceived him, that wasn’t him. He pushed past the other souls, running across the ground. His translucent feet carried him closer and closer. He reached out with his hand, his voice calling a name. One that had been in his mind for decades, one that he’d thought of constantly. One that carried a weight that felt both light and heavy at times. (It hadn’t just been a thought this time. It had been a cry, a call.) The soul before him turned and he met those eyes, the eyes he felt were the only ones who really saw him . The other reached out as well, their eyes bright. Their hands touched and they were whole once more. Their voices carried through the Underworld and those that knew rejoiced at the sound.
“Patroclus!”
“Achilles!”
In another part of the world, a mother smiled sadly as she watched her son reunite with the love of his life. And for once she didn’t object.