Chapter Text
No matter how many times he sees it, Patroclus is always awed by the throne room’s grandeur. The walls are inlaid with patterns of gold, woven tapestries depicting scenes from Phthia’s history. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling like flowers of sculpted coral. A thick, crimson carpet flows from the entrance to the thrones where the king and queen sit.
Patroclus bows to their majesties before standing to the side of the throne room, joining the other guards and servants. Achilles sends him a reassuring smile, which is a silly thing to do to one’s personal guard in any situation, but especially silly when Achilles is the one that their majesties have demanded to speak with. Still, as he rolls his eyes, Patroclus can’t help a smile of his own, one that makes Achilles’ grin even more dizzying.
The expression Queen Thetis sports is just as dizzying but certainly not a smile. Her face is bone-white and unerringly severe, as if she’s constantly sensing some unpleasant smell in the air that she can’t quite place. King Peleus, usually jolly in demeanour, is slumped in his seat, his hair and clothes dishevelled. If Briseis were here, she’d say that the unpleasant smell Thetis seems to sense is most probably coming from the king.
Achilles bows gracefully, his gold-spun hair glistening in the light. “Father, mother, may I ask why you have sent for me?”
Thetis clears her throat. “Achilles, you are turning twenty-one in a matter of months.”
“Is that so? I did not realise.”
Patroclus cannot help the snort that escapes him, so he attempts to disguise it as a cough. Achilles’ parents do not look as amused.
“Achilles, please be serious,” Peleus says with a sigh. “In Phthia, it is customary for our princes to seek a wife at twenty-one. You would do well to do the same.”
The other servants begin murmuring amongst each other. After all, Achilles is aristos achaion . His skill with weaponry is internationally renowned, his beauty and charisma even more so. He is, perhaps, the most worthy heir to Phthia’s throne to ever exist. For someone of Achilles’ fame, having a wife (if not two) would be the easiest thing in the world. Many courtiers over the years have attempted to set Achilles up with princesses from influential kingdoms, but for reasons unknown, none have succeeded.
Achilles shrugs, his hands as elegant as a thief’s. “While I may seek a wife, there is no guarantee that I will find one.”
At this, there are more than a few chuckles from the other guards. Patroclus only rolls his eyes. Achilles stole that joke from a conversation they’d had during breakfast.
“I’m sure you will have no problem with that, Achilles. Phthia is well known for its wealth and strength and a prince of your calibre is rare indeed. Even if you weren’t looking for a bride, the noblewomen and princesses would present themselves to you.”
“I have no need for such presents at present.”
This joke only elicits a few giggles from the servant girls, who would probably laugh at anything Achilles said, even if the prince were to read from one of Chiron’s most indecipherable tomes. For better or for worse, puns are typically looked down on as a more tacky form of humour. Patroclus suspects that Achilles only makes them because he knows that Patroclus likes it when he does.
Just as Peleus is about to answer with another tired plea, Thetis stands from her throne. Her hair pools beneath her like an oil spill, her eyes fixing on Achilles like an insect’s.
“My child, we have been patient enough. Many before you selected a spouse at a younger age. Your own father was arranged to marry me when he was merely fifteen. I do not understand why you persist in your refusal to take a bride. With every passing year, more princes begin looking for brides, princes of great beauty and intellect. If you do not find your bride quickly, she may be snatched away.”
“None of them rival me,” Achilles says, his eyes cool and steadfast. His features are at once defined and delicate, almost divine in their androgyny. When Achilles speaks of his achievements, his tone is factual, as if his superiority should simply be accepted without comment. Patroclus cannot imagine a world where it is not so.
“That may be true, but a princess does not have the luxury of waiting. If a princess does not marry quickly, her beauty may fade before her time, rendering her undesirable to the men around her. As such, most brides of quality will be married off within a year or two,” Thetis says. “The princesses of most great kingdoms are still unattached. It would be advisable to find a bride among them before you are left with no one to choose from.”
Despite himself, Patroclus finds that he agrees with Thetis. Rationally, Achilles should find a bride as soon as possible. Both he and Achilles have heard the whispers of courtiers and servants alike, all of whom wondering why Achilles remains unmarried. Their proposed reasons vary, with some speculating that Achilles has a secret lover, while others gleefully spread the sordid idea that Achilles may prefer the company of his own sex. All, however, are consistent in their impatience towards their prince. Achilles may be loved by his people at present, but if Phthia fails to forge the diplomatic ties it needs, he may be blamed for shirking his duties. What man, after all, would refuse to marry a beautiful woman? Surely such a man cannot be trusted.
But at the same time, Patroclus can’t imagine Achilles married to a princess. Dear Achilles, whose eyes shimmer green and gold like falling leaves as he talks to Patroclus, his laughter tinkling like the wind. Achilles has always refused his parents’ pleas before, and secretly, Patroclus hopes that he will continue to refuse their desires, against all reason.
Then again, perhaps if Achilles were not a rational being, he wouldn’t be the same Achilles that Patroclus cares for so deeply.
For a few moments, Achilles’ eyes are clouded in thought. Then, they clear with lucidity. He stands up straight, his hands held firmly behind him, the very picture of a dignified soldier. Achilles has always been a person of dualities, at once a capricious thespian and a devoted warrior.
“I hear you, your majesties,” he says as he takes another bow. “It shall be done.”
From his position at the edge of the throne room, Patroclus feels his chest seize.
~,,,~
“You’re upset,” Achilles says from the comfort of his bed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Patroclus.” Achilles draws out every syllable of his name as if he’s savouring the taste of it on his tongue. He pats the spot beside him. “Sit here. Beside me.”
With a sigh, Patroclus does so, carefully resting himself on the soft down of Achilles’ mattress. While Achilles’ room is certainly a space of his own — it’s full of personal touches, from the lyre on display on the corner table to the antlers hanging from the wall — Patroclus knows better than to taint any personal belongings of the royal family, even if Achilles wouldn’t mind at all. Achilles only chuckles as he sits down.
“Now, tell me. What’s wrong?” he says.
“Nothing.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” Achilles sighs. “What happened to the Patroclus that told me everything? Aren’t we still the best of friends?”
As a young boy, Patroclus had been too traumatised by Clysonymus’ death to interact with his peers in any normal capacity. It had taken months for even cheerful Achilles to bring the new kitchen boy out of his shell and another year of lessons with Achilles before Patroclus shared his story. However, as their lessons on politics progressed, Patroclus grew more and more aware of the unbridgeable gap between him and his best friend, the servant boy and his prince. And as Chiron spoke of literature, the tenderness he felt as he gazed at the prince became something to fear, an emotion he could only admit when he was alone. Perhaps Achilles wasn’t aware of it, but that version of Patroclus that told Achilles everything had only existed for a few months at most, an ephemeral period when everything felt as beautiful and incandescent as Achilles himself.
Patroclus doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he says the following: “Perhaps you corrupted him.”
“Patroclus!” Achilles lets out a mock gasp. “It hurts me that you think so little of me. How shall I ever regain your good favour?”
He lays his head on Patroclus’ thighs, his rosy mouth curled up in a pout. In front of the courts, Achilles is always proud and charismatic, a pillar of strength, a god among mortals. But when he’s alone with Patroclus, there’s always a feral edge to him, something wild and childlike. Patroclus tries to resist, but he finds himself combing his fingers through Achilles’ curls, intertwining his fingers in his prince’s flaxen locks. Achilles gazes at him, his eyes creased with tenderness, and Patroclus feels the warmth in his heart spread like a song.
“This is because I agreed to their request, isn’t it?”
Patroclus looks away. “Your highness, I cannot answer.”
“Your highness?” Achilles sits up and turns to face Patroclus. “I’m Achilles. Always Achilles to you. Don’t ever forget that.”
His voice is commanding, as a Prince’s voice ought to be, but his words are kind. Patroclus meets Achilles’ stare and finds an affection bold enough to boil the oceans.
“I won’t forget, Achilles.”
Achilles grins then, this time with teeth, like a sun blazing with light and fury. “Well, I hope you don’t think I’m forgetting your displeasure earlier.”
Patroclus leans back into the bed with a sigh. “Please, Achilles. Let it go. My displeasure is shameful enough; we do not have to discuss it further.”
Achilles leans towards him and nuzzles his cheek with his nose. “Why? What makes it so?”
“I have no right to demand anything from you, not when you are doing your duty for the good of Phthia. It would be selfish of me to ask you to reconsider.”
For a few moments, Achilles is silent, as if deep in thought. Then, he puts his arms around Patroclus, and Patroclus can feel Achilles’ hair pressed against him, his chin resting on Patroclus’ shoulder. Achilles smells like the vanilla and spice of his soap. “Patroclus, if it displeases you so, just say the word and I’ll call it off. They are nothing to me compared to you.”
A part of Patroclus believes this, but another part knows that Achilles was born to be the king of Phthia, and a king does not simply forsake his subjects. Furthermore, even if Achilles really does mean it, he deserves more than Patroclus’ love. Even the admiration of the whole world would not be enough for Achilles; he deserves to be worshipped as the Gods are, his legacy blazed in the stars.
So Patroclus stays silent and doesn’t answer. Achilles sighs and draws himself onto Patroclus’ lap.
“Patroclus, you will always be my closest companion,” he says, pulling Patroclus’ face towards his chest. Patroclus allows himself to savour his prince’s warmth and scent, all too aware that such pleasures will soon be taken away from him.