Chapter Text
There are no such things as day or night in Tartarus. This is one of the first things Patroclus comes to learn after his death and arriving in the realm that would soon be his afterlife. Without a sun, there is no marking the passage of time, and while Patroclus tries to keep track for a time, he quickly gives up after remembering that Chronos has no reign in the land of Hades anyway. So instead, he focuses on nothing more than his punishment, which involves crafting discus at a small cold bench for the end of time. It’s not the worst punishment; considering what other fates befall those in Tartarus, cruel ironic work is as close as he can get to mercy.
He does not know how long he is in Tartarus before Hades comes to find him. The green lanterns and flames never ebb and flow, and every discus he crafts crumples into dust upon completion, making it a useless metric. Other spirits passing by are only useful for overhearing scraps of gossip, and so when the Lord of the land arrives in his chariot born of skeletons horses, he has no estimation of how long he has resided there. All he knows is that he is dumbfounded when the God comes to speak to him in particular instead of passing by. He is even more perplexed when he hears what the God has to say.
“You are offering me a job?” The surprise in his voice leaks through his carefully calm tone. Hades is a God, ruler of the Underworld, and Patroclus is but a shade, doomed to Tartarus for a sin he will never wash away. What the Lord of the Dead could want is lost upon him. The whims of the Gods often are.
Hades stands there, glaive in hand, stern. His armor is finer than anything Patroclus touched in life, save perhaps a set washed up from the river stream towards a man he would follow to his death. While he takes the form of a man, Hades appears solid almost, like he is crafted of the same obsidian and basalt under their feet.
“My son Zagreus is in need of a mentor.” At the mention of his son’s name, the Lord of the Dead scowls. The relationships between Gods and their children have always been strained, Patroclus thinks, and it seems Hades is no exception. “He is undisciplined, rebellious and unfitting of his station. I believe you would be a suitable mentor to not only teach him the ways of combat but of respect.”
Patroclus thinks about the offer for a moment. Tartarus is not a kind place to dwell, but he still wants to say no. He is done fighting; he has never liked the practice of spilling blood despite his competence in it. But one does not say no to a God without significant thought of the consequences. Patroclus is not a genius to the likes of Odysseus, few men are, but he is not foolish either.
“I am flattered by your request but I ask why you do not hire someone of more standing for this task, my Lord,” he says, choosing each word with care. He feels much like a mouse speaking to one of the cats they kept on their ships, waiting for the inevitable pounce. “Surely the likes of Hercules or other champions would prove a better tutor than myself.”
He knows better than to ask about Achilles.
The Lord of the Dead scoffs. Hairs on his beard smoke with his exhale of breath, like he is a furnace in the shape of a man. “If I wanted him to be only a combatant, then that would be my ideal choice. But Zagreus is impulsive and disrespectful to his betters. I require a mentor who can attend to those personal failings as well.” Hades tilts his head, raising one eyebrow. “And I believe you are familiar with such behaviors if the legends are true.”
Patroclus holds his tongue because he is familiar, of course he is, but Achilles was so much more than his temper. All Patroclus hears about him these days is of his rage, nothing specific, only that he was a force of nature who carved through men without a glance. A butcher that turned rivers into lakes of blood. There are no songs about his talent with a lyre, or his love for fresh flowers that reminded him of home. All of the soft parts of Achilles’ nature are drowned by the pools of blood he spilt.
Achilles is remembered as he was promised by the Fates, but he is remembered as a symbol, not a man. The man he loved is gone, perhaps for good if he has drank from the waters of Elysium. Patroclus is the one left to remember. His punishment in Tartarus is nothing compared to that.
“You will be freed of your punishment and be allowed to stay in the house,” Hades continues. “I expect you to mentor him in combat, medicine, tactics and behavior.” The word “behavior” is spoken with a hiss, like it is a word so familiar to the God that he hates the taste of it. “When you are not working with him, you may serve as a guard to the halls. It will be no luxury, but it will be better than your current arrangements.”
Patroclus thinks of this godling he will be expected to mentor. Hot headed, impulsive and disrespectful with a stern Godly parent. He is torn between nostalgia for better days and bitterness for days he no longer has. Yet, something about Hades offer tempts him. His father was no God, but he recognizes the cold detachment of a man who considers his own blood a problem. Would it be so bad to be to a godling like Chiron was once to him?
“I will do so,” he says. “On one condition.”
Hades frown deepens into a scowl. When he replies, the ground rumbles. “You have little to barter.”
Hades is correct. If he had any leverage to speak of, he’d ask for a chance to visit Elysium, to confirm if Achilles had drunk from the river for a chance of a new adventure. It would break his heart, but it would at least allow the wound to heal. But he has nothing to barter, and so instead he asks for a mercy, not a boon.
"I do not ask for much,” he says, bowing low. “Solely that you will not require me to tell him of my Achilles or the war.” Memories flash through his mind in bursts: a burning temple, the smell of smoke, yanking on Achilles breastplate because “ one of us must have some sense” . He pushes the memories away, back where they can only ache like an old wound. “I shall decide which stories I tell.”
Hades examines him, and Patroclus can swear he appears almost sympathetic. Mortals are made in the image of the Gods: perhaps he understands how memory can burn worse than any wound.
“Fair enough,” Hades says. “You begin at once.”
And that is how Patroclus comes to reside in the House of Hades.
Patroclus finds Zagreus to be different from the portrait his father painted. He is disrespectful, true, but only to those who first treat him as such. He has a rash nature, but he is not without any wits, simply quick to assess a situation.
What is most surprising is how he treats Patroclus. There is a deference he shows to the shade that one would not expect from a God, like he sees Patroclus as an equal. It’s such a radically different experience from his slim interactions with Thetis. Patroclus is sure no mortals would believe him if he was able to share such tales.
The lad is also curious. He asks questions about the world above every sparring lesson, a world Patroclus learns Zagreus is forbidden from. The surface fascinates him, and Patroclus indulges him with facts about a world the God will never see.
“Is the sun as bright as they say ?”
Yes. One cannot stare at it directly without it burning their eyes. Think of a ball of fire and how it stings when you get too close. That is the sun: wonderous and frightening.
“ How large is an ocean? ”
So large one cannot see the other side of it. It appears endless, infinite, and men are caught with both awe and fear imagining it’s depths. Picture the River Styx if you could not see the other side of the shore in any direction.
“What is the best thing to eat on the surface?”
Depends on who you ask, but I am particular to ripe fruit as it can be a rarity. Sometimes, you can pluck it straight from the plant it grew from and take a bite. One must be careful to grab the right kind, however: some plants are as deadly as they are beautiful.
One day, after working with using a shield, Zagreus lies on the ground, eyes closed. Gods do not get tired (besides Hypnos perhaps), but they do indulge in rest. Patroclus sits on a bench near him, considering the next move for their lessons. He is considering going back to hand to hand combat, an area Zagreus excels at offensively but struggles with defensively. His fiery nature, much like his heels, can burn him when he thinks too fast. When Zagreus speaks, he catches Patroclus by surprise.
“What was your life like? When you were alive?”
Patroclus looks up at him. He had just finished putting away all the equipment from their bout. “Pardon?”
Zagreus has one eye open now, the green one, the one trait clearly not from his father. They say his mother is Nyx, but Patroclus doubts it. That shade of green is not found in the goddess of the night. “You were mortal once. You lived upon the surface. But you never tell me of your journeys on it, only of what is to be seen. All your stories of the world you hail from are absent of you.”
“I suppose they are.” Patroclus hadn’t meant to cut himself out of his own tales, but now that he thinks back on it, the Godling has a point. In his efforts to avoid painful memories, he has avoided sharing any memories that place him in the world he describes. It is far easier to talk about the world above like it is a place he has never been, one that he does not have to consider his absence from.
“I do not mean to pry,” Zagreus says, tone nervous. It is a tone Patroclus hears him using when speaking to his father. “I am merely-“
“Curious?” Patroclus makes sure to say it with a calm tone. It pains him to see the God so afraid to ask questions. He sees that Hades cares for the boy, that is true, but that care is hidden under so much scorn and secrecy that care might as well not exist.
Zagreus noticeably relaxes. He nods. “Yes. Curious.”
It is not a crime to ask questions, Patroclus thinks. And it is not a behavior Hades has told him to discourage. There is no harm in indulging him.
“I was a soldier,” Patroclus says, parsing his words carefully. “As a boy, I trained to be a warrior and when the Trojan war came upon us, I was called into the Greeks’ service.”
“So you were a hero?”
Patroclus chuckles. Now that is an assumption he never thought he would hear. “No, no, not remotely. I was but a shadow in comparison to the men I knew. Many days it felt like standing amongst giants.”
He’s not exaggerating. Patroclus is a tall man, but among those like Odyessus and Ajax he felt small. They didn’t treat him as such, but there was a weight to every word they said that made Patroclus think “ this is what they will tell of in the epics .” Patroclus never felt such importance in his actions, content in being a man who contributed, but not the focus of anyone’s story.
“Should your father decide to teach you tales of mortals, I will likely be only mentioned in passing, if at all.” Patroclus says. “But I kept up as best as I could until I met my end in Troy. “
Zagreus opens his other eye, the one that makes him clearly his father’s son. “Where you died.”
Memories come back to Patroclus in flashes. Hector, standing over him, thinking him to be Achilles. The flash of shame that he had pushed forward too hard and he was now paying for his hubris. A moment of relief that this was to be his end instead of Achilles. And right before the final blow, the horrible realization that despite his preparation for being the grieving soldier, it would be Achilles tending to his grave instead.
"Yes, where I died. Stabbed in the end, with a spear much like that one.” He points to the spear on the weapons rack.
Zagreus has died before. The first time Patroclus saw it happen, he panicked, thinking his student to have perished. It was only once he heard Zagreus’ bark of laughter from the pool of blood that he remembered that death was very different to the Gods than to mortals. For them it is but an inconvenience. Zagreus, however, seems to know that the death of mortal’s is more of an event, because he frowns.
“I’m sorry,” Zagreus says.
Patroclus shakes his head. “No need to apologize, my prince. All mortals must meet an end and mine could have been far worse than the one I got.” That is not a lie either. Patroclus saw men die of much worse there, on those bloody lands outside of Troy. Men whose bodies rotted from wounds gone rancid, men who took days lingering between life and death before they slipped away in agony. At least Patroclus’ demise was quick.
Zagreus appears to think about that for a moment.
“If I go to the surface, I’ll add you to a ballad,” he says. “For your merits.”
Patroclus is but a shade. He should no longer be able to cry, but yet, he can. He has shed enough tears over Achilles to know that. It is a struggle to not tear up now, at such a statement. “I told you,” he says, proud his voice remains stoic. “I am no hero.”
Zagreus gets up and shrugs. When he turns to Patroclus, there is a smile on his face that reminds Patroclus of the younger soldiers in his company. The kind of smile that conveys respect beyond that which is beholden by service. “Perhaps by the Muses standards, but you’re kind. And patient. To someone I've been told is a horrible student. I think that deserves at least a hymn, don’t you think?”
Achilles wrote hymns about Patroclus, this he knows, but he doubt they survived the man’s passing. Such ballads between lovers often stayed as such, unless one was a bard of renown. The idea of Zagreus’ cementing his legacy as one of a teacher is a different legacy, but one Patroclus finds himself proud of.
“Maybe so,” he says. “Maybe so.”
“Lord Thanatos, if I may have just a moment.”
It is rare to catch Thanatos in the halls due to the nature of his work. Zagreus complains about the God’s absence often between training sessions, questioning if perhaps his father works Thanatos too hard. Patroclus feels for the young prince during these impromptu rants: he knows the feeling of being left behind.
“Yes, Sir Patroclus?” Thanatos says, turning to look at him. He’s floating an inch above the floor as is his nature, but not so high that it comes off as intimidating. At first, it struck Patroclus as eerie, but he is now used to it. Just as he is used to the underlying sound of chiming funeral bells when Thanatos speaks.
“I was wondering if you could answer a question for me, if it is not too much trouble. If you cannot, I understand.” When Thanatos does not object, Patroclus continues. “I must ask: did Achilles survive his fate? Were you the one to bring him to this place?”
He hopes Thanatos will answer in the affirmative. That for all the rumors of Achilles rage, he managed to dodge the grasp of a violent death and perish an old man. Perhaps Patroclus’ death in his armor was enough to sate the prophecy.
Thanatos lowers an inch, his toes grazing the tile. The motion is silent, but Patroclus can almost hear the striking of lamenter’s fists against fresh soil as he makes contact.
“I regret to inform you I was not his escort: he died a violent death as foretold,” Thanatos says. “Shortly after yourself, I believe.”
Patroclus closes his eyes. It is what he expected, but it crushes all the same. If his demise saved Achilles from his fate, he would have been content with that. To know it made no change at all-
“Thank you,” he says, proud his voice doesn’t waiver. When he opens his eyes he finds Thanatos looking almost awkward, even uncomfortable. Like he is the young man he appears to be instead of a God. His age makes sense, given he is the God of peaceful demises. Such a fate for mortals was likely unlikely before Prometheus blessed them with stolen fire.
“You do not have to thank me. I have brought you no comfort.”
Zagreus once told him that Thanatos was kind, a deceleration Patroclus then found skeptical. A peaceful death could be considered a kindness, but the grief it left behind could be as ugly as any other. But he can see it now, in Thanatos’ demeanor. He is put off by this conversation not because he has no emotion but because his depth of them is large enough to drown in.
“I require no comfort,” Patroclus says. “Only the truth. And you have provided me with that as asked. Thank you.”
Thanatos nods and soon after vanishes.Patroclus keeps his post and is thankful he does not sleep so his mind cannot torment him with all the ways Achilles may have perished after he was gone.
Patroclus hears about Zagreus first escape attempt from Hypnos. He’s there when Zagreus comes out of the pool, dripping blood. He is also there watching as Hades lectures the boy for his failures, a mocking tone that Patroclus remembers from Thetis and his own father. He has not missed it, especially when said tone is directed towards one’s own children.
“Are you mad at me?” Zagreus asks him near his post later, chin held high, defiant. Like he expects Patroclus to abandon him too, to scoff at his quest in the wake of such a revelation about his true parentage. Patroclus doesn’t miss how his fists shake.
“No,” Patroclus says, because he is not. He looks to make sure Lord Hades is occupied, before placing his hand on the lad’s shoulder. He cannot have the Lord see him providing his son with comfort after defying his rule. He steps back and Zagreus walks with him, around the corner and out of Lord Hades’ sight. As soon as there are no more watchful eyes, he lets worry creep into his tone. “I am scared for you.”
Zagreus jerks back, not harsh enough to break Patroclus grip, but enough that Patroclus knows he caught him off guard. “Scared for me? Why?”
For a God, Patroclus thinks, Zagreus can be quite naive. He wonders if Lord Hades is admiss not to show Zagreus the surface himself. Only a week under the sun would show Zagreus’ why the Gods are dangerous even to their own. All Hades would have to do is show him the likes of Arachne or Prometheus to prove his point.
“Because you are playing with the minds of Gods and that is dangerous, regardless if you are one yourself,” Patroclus says. Zagreus’ mouth tilts down into a frown at that, and the fire from his heels flares up slightly.
“I know the risk-“
Patroclus removes his hand from Zagreus’ shoulder and his grip on his spear with his other hand tightens. He must be careful here: he wants Zagreus to listen to him and he will not achieve that if the lad is upset. He thinks a moment before he speaks next. “I do not mean any insult, Zagreus. It is only that no one knows the risk when they tempt the wrath of the Gods, Zagreus. I speak from experience.”
Zagreus does not respond for a moment. Since his arrival home, his stops holding his head high, gaze going slightly softer. There is fight in his expression still, but it is mixed with doubt. The confidence and defiance he has tried so hard to keep on display fades a fraction. “Are you going to try to stop me?”
“The fact you think I could is perhaps the highest compliment you have ever given me,” Patroclus shakes his head and smiles. Sometimes the boy gives himself too little credit. “But, no, I don’t. And even if I could, I will not keep you from your answers.” Zagreus looks at him, eyes wide. Patroclus cannot blame him for his surprise: all he has met so far in his quest is disapproval besides for Nyx. Patroclus refuses to add to his woes. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something he has carried around since he arrived in the underworld. “In fact, take this. It may provide you with some luck.”
Zagreus looks down at the metal point as Patroclus places it into his hands. His thumb brushes over the knicks and dents.
“Is this a spear point?”
“Yes. It is from my favorite spear and upon my death, it came with me. It is nothing fancy, but I considered it a lucky charm in life.” He smiles, patting Zagreus on the shoulder. “Perhaps it will do the same for you.”
He wasn’t using his favorite spear on the day he died. He was using Achilles, because he needed to be Achilles and Achilles used weapons crafted by Gods. He needed to be Achilles perhaps because Achilles was a weapon himself to many. Where his favorite spear ended up is a mystery to him. Regardless if it is still lying next to his cot in their shared tent or used as fuel for his own pyre, he will never know. Death is cruel like that: it never answers many questions.
“Thank you,” Zagreus says, tucking the point into his own pockets. He leaves shortly later and Achilles wonders if, on the chance he makes it to the surface, if Zagreus can tell him what happened to the real spear.
The lucky charm brings them both something unexpected after Zagreus first dozen attempts.
“What troubles you?” Patroclus says as Zagreus walks down the hall towards him, gaze firmly on the floor. Zagreus snaps his head up to look at his mentor. Since he has returned from his last escape attempt he’d been avoiding his teacher. At first Patroclus assumed he was just in a poor mood from his recent failing, but he caught Zagreus glancing at him out of the corner of his eye as he passed right outside his hall for a while now.
“You have been lurking about my station for at least an hour,” Patroclus continues. “Something is clearly bothering you. And I for one, would rather you get it off your chest rather than hiding in the shadows like some shade.”
“I was not lurking,” Zagreus mutters, tone suiting the young man he appears to be. It reminds Patroclus of himself at that age.
“But something is indeed troubling you.”
Zagreus stalls, fiddling with something in his hands. Patroclus sees a glint of steel and recognizes it as the spear point he gave him earlier.
“...I met a shade,” He said at last. “One who has decided to aid me throughout my attempts.”
“I see.”
“But last time I went through, he was upset with me. About this.”
He holds out Patroclus' broken spearpoint, the keepsake still sparkling under his care. Patroclus looks at it, perplexed. Why someone would find ire with Zagreus over this is beyond him. It is merely a broken weapon, nothing more. It wasn’t even from an exceptional spear either: compared to his peers, his equipment was nothing of particular note.
“My spear point,” Patroclus says, picking it out of Zagreus’ grasp. He flipped it over, and looked at the detailed work of the base. It speaks to money, perhaps, but money is not worth much in the underworld unless it is Charon’s golden coins. “I hope he was not so foolish to think it worth stealing as a weapon?”
“No, not that. He-he knew you, Sir. He said it was yours.”
“He knew it?” Patroclus looks up at Zagreus. “And it upset him?”
“Quite. He wanted to know where I got it, and when I mentioned you, he-” Zagreus pauses, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “He grew irate. I tried to tell him you gave it to me of your free will but well, I got slightly impaled for my trouble.”
“What in the Gods,” Patroclus said, wracking his brain for someone who would not only recognize the spearpoint but be so upset around it. It was not like the enemies he fought at Troy would recognize it at a glance. “It is only a spear point-“
Upon uttering that phrase, Patroclus realizes it all at once. Who would remember a man’s favorite weapon despite its lack of glamor among their company. Who might have spent time with it, as they did repairs by the campfire. Who once threw it himself and told Patroclus that he did not see the appeal except for the fact it had kept Patroclus alive so far.
“It is a fine spear for a noble, but it is nothing compared to yours,” Patroclus once told him in the late days of the war, picking it up from the grass. “You waste your talents on such a weapon.”
“I waste my talents on nothing,” Achilles said to him, walking over and grabbing the hilt of the spear, inspecting it like he was a smith appraising a particular find. “This spear has done me the great service of keeping you alive. It deserves my thanks and more.”
“And I am not worthy of such praise for my own survival,” Patroclus yanked the spear back from Achilles, rolling his eyes. Achilles chuckled.
“You are always worthy of such praise. You just insist on refusing it.”
He was still there. Achilles was still there. He hadn’t drunk from the stream after all this time. He was there. And he could spot Patroclus’ spear point after all this time.
“He has never told me his name either. When I explained Father had hired you and he demanded I take you here but when I explained I couldn’t- Sire? Sire? Is something wrong?”
He scrambles for something to say. He both wants to tell Zagreus everything and nothing. He wants to scream in rage and cry in sorrow. He wants so much and yet expects so little.
Zagreus is still looking at him, concerned. Zagreus is confused and that is something Patroclus can bare to think about. He clears his throat.
“I know who this man is and I apologize for his rashness,” Patroclus feels like he is a teen again, a young man, a slightly older young man, apologizing for the temper of a man he adores so they can both save face. “If you see him again, tell him-”
Tell him what? An apology for rushing too far into the battle, a declaration of his still present heart? A question of what he has been doing? All feel too personal to send with his student and not convincing enough to stay Achilles hand. So he settles with what he hopes will convince Achilles it is his words: a scolding.
“Tell him that I do not appreciate him harassing my best student. And that after all these years, I would have hoped he had learned to control his temper.”
When Zagreus returns later with a bracer upon his arm that Patroclus knows by heart, he knows his message was received.