Chapter Text
~ Prologue ~
A decade ago, there was a war in the city of Troy. At least, that is what everyone called it.
(Whenever a member of the House of Atrides came across another from the House of Priam, each respective man would lift the hilt of his sword to remind the other what trouble it would bring to cross paths with the other.
The women broke out into gossip, whispering with menacing eyes behind their fans during afternoon tea in the town.
Fights would break out in the streets of the city when a man of the other House would step too close towards the boundary. Insults upon insults would be thrown across the streets, disturbing the peace of the citizens.
Whenever Achilles asked about it, they said it was the war, but he’d come to understand it was more of a feud between the two noble houses that governed over the city than an actual battle.)
A decade ago, Helen - Menelaus of the House Atrides' wife - ran away in the middle of the night only to be discovered with Paris of House Priamides, embraced as lovers. According to the spy Menelaus had sent, she had not been kidnapped from her bed as he had suspected when he found her missing. She had been seen curled up against Paris' side, bare under silk sheets.
This, understandably, sent him into a rage. What kind of tragedy is greater than a lover scorned? - he asked himself.
House Atrides’ response to Helen’s infidelity had been violent. Agamemnon - House Atrides’ lord - had summoned neighbouring nobles and lords along with their men to retrieve Helen - she was still his brother’s wife, whether she ran away to another man or not. Helen, pleading with her lover to defend her, had stayed behind the fortress that was the Priamides’ estate while Paris and the rest of the nobles of the city had gathered to her defence.
But it had not been so. Menelaus had retrieved his wife, and demanded a divorce due to her infidelity. Perhaps it was the result she was hoping for in the first place - the church would not approve any other reason for a separation - even though it would tar her reputation for the rest of her life.
(Her and Paris are married now - he reportedly had not cared whether she was no longer a maiden or not - even her being divorced was not an issue in his eyes. She lives on House Priamides' estate now, safely secured behind its walls.)
Achilles’ father, Peleus, had supported House Atrides’ endeavours during the whole ordeal. Achilles does not remember much about the whole ordeal - he was only ten or eleven years old at the time. He does not remember the fights and duels and blood that had been spilt upon the streets he walks on now.
What he does remember is the ever-present animosity between the two houses, still relevant even though a decade has passed since its finale. It seems like both sides are just waiting for an excuse to start their feud back up again.
Achilles did not care for it. Being the son of a lord on the Atrides’ estate, he would know more about it than most. He saw it all, and could not understand it. Helen had only wanted to find love, and the two households were so similar - alike in status and dignity within the city - it did not make sense to hold such a strong grudge that inspired bloodshed over something that seemed so slight to him.
He had asked his father about it one night. “I still don’t understand why Menelaus called everyone to fight for him when he ended up divorcing her after it all,” he’d said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It doesn’t have to make sense, my son,” Peleus had replied. “He had loved her, and she’d betrayed him. Love makes people do strange things, sometimes.”
Achilles had frowned, as this answer made even less sense than the others he was given before. “You mean love can make people hate each other?” He had no other words to describe the relationship between the two houses except for hateful.
Peleus had hesitated, and Achilles knew then that his question was not one so easily answered. “Not all the time,” had been his father’s reply. “Sometimes love is greater than hate. It can be greater than anything else in the world, Achilles.”
Greater than hate. Achilles had only been thirteen at the time - these were the sorts of things he did not understand just yet. “Do you think it could break the feud, then?”
Peleus had shaken his head. “I don’t know, son. Perhaps.”
~ Scene I ~
Achilles is hiding, ducked between the bushes on the southern edge of the Atrides’ estate like some sort of child running from a punishment. He quiets, evens out his breathing, and hears the soft patter of footsteps approach the gardens he is hiding in.
“Achilles?” A voice calls, high and screeching like a cat. Achilles freezes, and sees the ruby-red bustle of skirts stop right in front of the bush he is ducked behind.
( Deidameia, the girl he’s supposed to marry. The girl his family is supposed to announce his betrothal to, tonight.
The girl he can’t stand being around.
Or, as of right at this moment, the girl Achilles is hiding in the bushes from. Good God, she would not just leave him alone.)
She huffs, her skirts turning with her as she searches around the courtyard. “Where could he have gone?” She asks, and two more pairs of skirts join her in front of the bush, each more brightly coloured than the last. Achilles holds his breath, and does not move.
“I’m sure he rounded this corner, my lady,” one of the others say. “He can’t have gone far.”
Deidameia makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, then a hitch of her breath. “Is that him there?” She is pointing into the distance, to the left. They take off not too soon after, calling Achilles! Achilles! as they hurry towards the grove of cypress trees. It is only when he hears the hurried clack of their shoes against the cobblestone fade out of earshot does he emerge from his hiding spot.
He is picking leaves from his jacket as he watches with a sense of disdain - the girls racing down the pathway after some poor sod they believe to be him. It would almost be amusing if it wasn’t him they were after.
He turns around the bend he came from before he is noticed, brushing twigs out of his hair as he tries not to think about having the spend the rest of the night with her - was it really so bad to want to spend an afternoon in peace? At least until the engagement is announced, this is really the last moment alone he’d ever get to have.
(And that thought scares him more than it should, really. He’d never really been alone growing up under the watchful eye of the House Atrides - he’d always had companions and the sons of the other lords to keep him company, but this was a different sort of company altogether.
“You are twenty years old now, Achilles,” his mother had told him a week ago, just after his birthday. “It is time you find a wife.”
Achilles, understandably, had been confused, and perhaps just a bit upset at her wording. He’d only just turned twenty, after all, and he wasn’t interested in any of the lord’s daughters enough to warrant marriage.
“You don’t have to like them,” his mother had said. “The others are starting to talk about you. And our family. Having a son at your age without his own family is bad enough, but without the slightest prospect of marriage in the future?”
“Mother, I don’t want to get married right now,” he’d tried to argue. “Can I not wait until I’ve at least met someone I like?”
“With your impossible standards?” she’d objected, and really, were his standards truly that impossible? It’s not his fault that the ladies that lived on the estate were so utterly insufferable. “No, the Lady Deidameia from Scyros is coming with her father in a week, when we will announce your betrothal.”
“What?!”
To say he was not excited about this new stage in his life - no matter how forced upon him it may be - would be an understatement.)
He doesn’t notice when he practically walks into Antilochus, being so caught up in all this turmoil. The other man is laughing at him, though, so it is safe to say he saw him coming.
“That was a pathetic display, back there,” he laughs, teasing. Achilles only sends him a glare.
“Shut up,” he says, pushing at the other’s shoulders as he continues to laugh, picking a leaf from his jacket where it had gotten stuck.
“I still don’t see what the problem is,” Antilochus says, following Achilles as he walks towards the courtyard gate. “She’s pretty enough. And willing - that’s always a plus. She’s practically begging you to father her children.”
Achilles grimaces. Not an image he wants to have in his mind. “I know, and it’s not helping anything.”
“I’d argue it’s supposed to help something. At least she won’t hate you, like with Agamemnon’s wife.”
“ That is different. She hates him because he married their daughter off at fourteen without her consent.”
Antilochus sighs, pulling him aside when they get to the gate so that they are out of sight. “Look, you don’t have to marry her, you know? You’re a high-ranking Lord in the House Atrides! I’m sure you could have any woman you wanted.”
And he probably could, but he wants more than that. The other women don’t care about him, what they want is his status.
(Even with Deidameia, who is supposed to be besotted with him. The way she looks at him tells him all he needs to know about her priorities. She doesn’t really want him, what she wants is a husband she can brag about.)
But that’s not the only reason Achilles practically slumps with despondance despite his friend’s well-meaning reassurances.
“What is it?” Antilochus asks, noticing how his mood has not improved.
“My father is announcing Deidameia and I’s betrothal tonight.”
“What?”
Achilles makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, and somehow slumps even further. “During the feast tonight. My mother wanted to make it official as soon as possible.”
(So that he couldn’t back out of it, once it was public.
He keeps this fact to himself.)
“Really?” It seems like Antilochus can’t believe it himself, either.
Achilles only nods, despondent.
“Well, maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. At least now you won’t have to worry about your mother badgering after you anymore.”
No, now he’ll have a wife he doesn’t like to do that instead.
Achilles groans, and pushes himself off the wall he is leaning against to head into the courtyard. “You don’t understand, Antilochus!” he says.
“Well, what is there to understand? Tell me. Am I not your friend?”
Achilles turns to face him, a sympathetic look on his friend’s face. He takes a breath before answering.
“Once I marry her, it’s done. My mother has gone through and hand-picked her perfect bride to keep me in line for the rest of my life. It’s not on my terms, and that’s half the problem.”
“The other half being you can’t stand Deidameia.”
Achilles nods with a grimace. “All she talks about is having children, and what our future estate will look like. She doesn’t really want to know me.”
Antilochus is frowning now, something real and not mocking - like before. It seems like for once, he doesn’t know what to say.
It is a moment before Antilochus says, “What if you just didn’t go to the feast tonight?”
Achilles gives him a look. “You know my mother. I can’t not go.”
“Well why not?” Antilochus asks him. “If you’re not at the feast, then your father can’t announce your betrothal.”
He has a point, but not a very strong one. “Where would I go? This estate is not a very private one, and my mother has eyes everywhere.”
Antilochus only grins, a mischievous look in his eye. “I bet she doesn’t have eyes inside the Priamides estate.”
Achilles frowns at him. “You want us to break into the Priamides’ estate tonight?”
“They’re throwing a party - don’t ask how I know. It’s a masquerade, something about one of his daughter’s birthdays today. We could sneak in and no one would even know it was us.”
He hesitates, but not because he hates the idea. His family will definitely notice if he’s not present at the feast tonight, and he can only imagine the words his mother will have for him if he’s not there. Not to mention what would happen if they got caught inside the opposing House’s estate. Things have been tense between them already, and he has no desire to antagonize it further.
“No,” he says, after a moment. “It’s too risky.”
“It’s a masquerade, ” Antilochus protests. “Your entire face will be covered. No one will know who we are. And besides, we won’t have to stay for long - just a dance or two until the feast back here is over.”
Achilles hesitates, still unsure. It is a good plan, he must admit. The circumstances couldn’t be better.
“Look,” Antilochus says, “if anything happens, you can blame it on me. We could just say we were there to look for the papers they stole from Agamemnon’s study last week, if something goes wrong.”
(That could work, if all else fails. He doesn’t like lying, but would it really be a lie if he was there? Tensions between the two Houses have been tense as of lately, especially when Agamemnon’s study was found broken into last week with several contracts and documents missing. They’d blamed the Priamides, but there was no way to prove it.
Plus, the masquerade party is the perfect circumstance.)
“Fine,” Achilles sighs, giving in. But only until the feast is over. He doesn’t want any fights to break out if he was discovered there for staying longer than he’d need to. “Just in and out, though. No sticking around for too long. Just until the feast is over.”
Antilochus only grins.
~ Scene II ~
If there is a Hell after death, then Patroclus has surely reached it by now.
Another pin goes through the fabric under his arm, poking him in the process, earning Briseis - the woman assaulting him with pins under the guise of ‘fitting him for a new jacket’ - a yelp from him.
“Oh, hush,” she says, reprimanding. “I’m almost done.”
Patroclus only huffs. “Could you possibly be any rougher, though?” He asks. “I’m starting to think I’m the pin cushion here.”
Another pin pushed through, then a string held out across his arm. Briseis pulls it taut, then writes a number down on the piece of parchment on the small table beside them. “If you hadn’t ripped your jacket the day before the Lady’s masquerade, then we wouldn’t have this problem, now would we?”
Patroclus sends her a half-hearted glare. It’s not like he meant to rip his jacket.
“I just don’t see why you feel the need to make me a new one,” he argues. “I have other jackets, you know.”
“Yes, but those are all from years ago, Patroclus, and there is a ball happening tonight. You’ve got to look at least like you care about going. Now…” she pauses, holding up two swatches of fabric in front of her. “Blue or red?”
“Blue,” Patroclus says.
Briseis nods her approval. “Good choice. I was going to give you blue anyway.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“To give you the illusion of choice.”
Patroclus would fondly slap her shoulder if he wasn’t so full of pins and needles. He gives her a glare instead.
“I’m glad you are going, nonetheless,” she continues on, ignoring him. “It doesn’t do you any good to brood all day, especially when there’s parties to be held.”
“I do not brood, Briseis.”
“You do so. I know things have been hard after your mother left-”
Patroclus frowns at the mention of it. She’s right - it has been hard, especially since now he’s stuck with his father on this stupid estate he insisted in supporting a decade ago.
“- but it’ll do you no good to isolate yourself now. You’re only twenty, Patroclus, you can be bitter all you like when you’re fifty and balding.”
“I’m not isolating myself,” he argues. “I have you, Bri.”
She gives him a sympathetic smile. “You know what I mean.”
He frowns, but has nothing else left to argue back - he knows she’s right.
(When Patroclus was young - maybe nine or ten - there’d been a skirmish between him and another lord’s son that had ended up with a head injury on the boy’s side, and a furious father on Patroclus’. He had wanted to send him away to the city of Troy, hoping some Lord or other would take him in as a steward, or perhaps foster him for a few years until things in his own city died down a bit. Patroclus’ father was making arrangements with Lord Priam when the war broke out, a decade ago, with House Atrides.
They’d sworn allegiance, and they’ve been in Troy ever since. Patroclus learned in that time that if there was anything Priam’s sons valued more over their legacy, it was strength. Hector, Lord Priam’s eldest son, was said to one of the greatest swordsmen his generation had ever seen - certainly the best within his own family from years before. All of his brothers were the same.
Patroclus had not been. He was small for a nine-year-old, and clumsy. The older boys had sneered at him when he walked past. The looks they give him now, after ten years have passed, are no different.
So when his mother was sent away to see a doctor in the east due to her failing health, it seemed like isolation further. Besides Briseis, his mother was the only other person to show him any kindness, or any kind words of the sort.)
“Besides,” Briseis continues, jolting Patroclus out of his despondent thoughts. “This new jacket is surely to catch you some attention. I’ve heard the Lady is inviting some friends from outside the city tonight for the masquerade, some lovely girls with promising prospects.”
She is teasing - he knows she is due to the way she waggles her eyebrows at the suggestion. He cannot help the grimace that grows on his face anyway.
“Don’t tell me that,” he says, frowning, and Briseis accidentally pokes him with another pin. She is grinning, and Patroclus cannot tell if she had meant to poke him or not.
“I’m just saying,” she says. “It’s something to think about.”
He sends her a glare. “I’d rather stand by the walls the whole night than worry about that,” he tells her, leaving out the fact that he most likely will do so anyway.
“You’re not going to do that,” she says, poking him with another pin, forcefully enough that it makes Patroclus think she did so on purpose this time. “Be grateful you were invited, Patroclus. I am just a seamstress. Sewing a new jacket for you is the closest I’ll actually get to the party.”
Oh, but how he wishes he could take her along. If they’d had time to sew her a dress that could pass her off for a noble lady, then maybe. They’d dance a little, and stand by the tables filled with food to gossip about the other noble’s who’d decided to show up. At least with her there, the party might be bearable.
(He’s only going because his father - who’d managed to smooze himself up to a lord of high-standing with Priam - had insisted upon it. Something about seeing their family as united, though Patroclus knew he couldn’t care less.
He’d shown that the day they’d shown up here in Troy to barter him off.)
“There,” she says, pushing in one last pin before standing back to admire her work. A thoughtful look crosses her face before a grin grows in its place. “It’s perfect,” she says. “Some of my best work, really.”
Patroclus feels a bit silly, standing on the podium with his arms outstretched, pins poking into his skin with every miniscule movement. “Great,” he says. “Now can you please get this thing off of me?”
Briseis rolls her eyes, grinning.
~ Scene III ~
The party is in full swing when Achilles, Antilochus, and Automedon arrive at the southern wall that encases the Priamides’ estate. Lively music and bright laughter can be heard from inside the walls - the masque must have been being held half-outdoors, at least, as Achilles can see the glow from the torchlight shining over the walls.
“Alright,” Antilochus says, reaching into his satchel to retrieve the masks he’d brought. He hands the blood-red one bordered with black to Automedon, and keeps the blue one for himself as he passes the golden gilded one to Achilles, intricately designed and painted with black and white patterns.
“They’re checking for invitations at the doors, so we can’t get in that way,” Antilochus says before tucking his satchel snugly behind an unsuspecting bush, tying his mask behind his head, obscuring the top half of his face.
Automedon gives him a look. “Then how are we expected to get into the party now?”
Antilochus grins, his smile the only thing left that is visible of him, and points to the wall they are standing by. Or, more like the ivy that is running all across it, heavy and steady up and over the top.
Automedon pales, his own mask still in his hands. “You’re joking,” he says, looking up at it, then glancing back at Antilochus with a despaired look. “You’ve got to be joking. There’s no way we’re climbing the wall.”
“Well, do you have any better suggestions?”
Achilles, tying the mask to his face with the ribbon behind his head, ignores his friends as they begin to bicker, and walks over to the wall. He glances at the height of it, jutting stones that could be used as handholds, and the thick ivy vines that grow up and over the top of the wall. It was old, but sturdy.
“It’ll never hold under our weight!” He hears Automedon argue, and Achilles gives the vine an experimental tug. It holds, but it is not like he had expected them not to - it looks like it had been the subject to years of growth, taking root within the stones themselves.
“What other way do you suggest, then? It’s not like someone on the inside is going to leave us a rope! What did you think was going to happen tonight?”
“I thought you had invitations to get us in!”
“ Invitations? What makes you think I could get my hands on any invitations? Nonetheless three of them!”
“I don’t know, you always have something up your sleeve.”
“I planned this this morning! This afternoon, actually. You think I would have had time to mug some poor messenger boy for his invitations?”
Achilles crouches on the top of the ivy-covered wall, having scaled it overtop of his friends’ useless bickering - Antilochus was right, the ivy could hold their weight. It wasn’t like it was hard, in any case.
A sharp whistle in their direction has them turn in his direction, and they both look up with disbelief on their faces when they see him crouched on the top of the wall like a gargoyle. Achilles only grins.
“Are you coming, or what?”
They gape. Below, Achilles can hear the music pick up, the sweet melody of the violins picking up, flutes accompanying like a songbird’s whistle. Next was a dancing song, he could tell by the beat.
Automedon grumbles, and walks towards the wall to take a hold of the ivy. Achilles, grinning, takes a hold of the other side, and climbs down.
They land on the southern wing of the estate. All three of them brush off twigs and dirt from when they had climbed the wall - no invited nobleman would be caught with dirt on their sleeve during a party such as this, and they were in no position to be caught tonight.
“So,” Antilochus says once they’ve found a quiet corridor to hide in before they find the party. “Who is ready for some dancing? Achilles, you’re going to go first, right?”
Achilles frowns, confused. “I never said I’d do that.”
Antilochus gives him a look. “It’s a party, mate,” he says, like it isn’t already obvious. “I thought that was sort of implied.”
“What if we get spotted right in the middle of things?” He asks. He’d seen what sort of things happened between the houses off the estate, and doesn’t want to find out what getting caught here would mean. He was planning on standing near the edge for most of the night, if he was being completely honest. “I thought we agreed on not drawing attention.”
Antilochus smiles incredulously at him. Automedon is fixing his mask where it had fallen askew. “I never agreed to that,” he says. “Look, there wasn’t much of a plan here. I just wanted to get you off the estate, really. You needed some cheering up.”
Achilles frowns. They were here just to wait out the feast. “I thought this was to avoid the announcement today.”
Antilochus gives him a smile that seems more apologetic than it should, throwing an arm around his shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Well, you were so caught up with all that stuff with Deidameia. What I think you need is some good wine and some dancing. And here, you can do so without anyone knowing the wiser.”
Achilles is still frowning, but now it looks more like a glare. “I don’t feel like dancing, and I don’t want your pity.”
“What?” Automedon frowns, pouting. “You’re not going to dance? Come on, at a party like this, you should at least once.”
They are both giving him a smile - too wide to be up to any good. Achilles glares at them both. “You two set me up.”
“To have a good time?” Antilochus grins. “Absolutely yes we did.”
They are walking him towards the party - he can tell because the music is getting louder, the laughter growing and growing the closer they get to the main courtyard.
“Just one dance,” Antilochus tells him as the light from the torches grows brighter as they near the dancing. “And then that’s it. We can go home, and you can brood about your impending betrothal for the rest of the night, okay?”
He is mocking him, and Achilles does not find it amusing, but maybe he has a point. What else would he have done with his night if he had stayed behind, anyway?
(At least this way he can have the satisfaction of knowing he’d successfully broken into the Priamides’ estate - which boasted to be impenetrable - and still get drunk.)
Achilles sighs and pushes their arms from his shoulders before walking out of the corridor and into the middle of the party.
He is greeted with laughter, music, and joyous celebration.
The first thing he notices is all the masked people on the dance floor in front of him, vibrant colours adorning lords and ladies of all shapes and sizes - ruby red, emerald green, blues, purples, and yellows - circling around him. There are tables adorned with white tablecloths against every wall of the room stuffed with food - bread and cheese, meats of every variety, sweets and chocolates, ripe fruit filled with sweet juice. In the far corner of the room is the musicians playing a jaunty tune, causing the dancers to weave in and out from each other with laughter.
Whatever Achilles was expecting, it wasn’t this.
(He’d been told the Priamides men were a stuffy, proud people. It’d been said that Paris thought himself better than Menelaus when he took Helen to bed, and that attitude reflected in the lesser Houses that supported him during the war.
He hadn’t expected them to be having fun, instead of trying to one-up each other. One woman steps on her partner’s feet, and they both laugh, spinning around each other.
Either they aren’t what the rumours have told him, or the wine is really strong. Achilles can’t decide which.)
Antilochus and Automedon are at his side, watching the crowds dance and move in front of them. Automedon to his left with a sense of awe, and Antilochus to his left, grinning.
The song ends, and the dancers slow to a stop, cheering and applauding, bowing to their partner before departing towards the sides for food and drink. There is chatter that echoes off the walls of the courtyard. It is the perfect time to slip in - they won’t be noticed near the walls, and the noise will drown them out completely.
“What did I tell you?” Antilochus says to his right, grinning smugly. “Just watch, you’re going to forget all about that marriage stuff by the end of the night.”
Unlikely, he wants to say, because even though this party is the scapegoat he is using to get away from all of it, it’s still on his mind. How could it not be, considering the lengths he’s going to tonight to avoid it?
But Automedon is already drifting off towards a table of sweets, and Automedon gives him a cheeky grin before heading towards a group of ladies that had gathered near a table closer to cheeses that had been laid out, leaving him standing alone near the corridor’s entrance.
Another dance is starting, the musicians on the far end of the courtyard lifting their instruments and tuning with each other quickly. There are already a few patrons who are taking notice, grabbing partners as they hurry to the dancefloor before the next song begins.
Achilles, for his own part, heads to the wine casks in the opposite direction.
Another dance is beginning, the solo violinist starting a melody that echoes across the room, and the dancers begin, weaving in and out of each other, drifting and pulling away like the tide. It is not a dance Achilles remembers learning. Instead, he takes a goblet of wine and sips at it as he walks around the edge of the room, watching them.
Then, a flash of blue catches his eye. It is there and gone so fast that Achilles half thinks he must have imagined it (the wine is strong, after all) but then he sees it again, in between the crowds of people.
Achilles pauses, and cranes his neck to catch it again, searching past the bustling skirts and bright-coloured doublets.
(It wasn’t an obnoxious blue, and that is partly what catches his attention.
This blue was a deep azure, rich in color, though not showy like the rest. It reminds him of the ocean, where he used to live before he came to Troy when he was young.)
The dancers turn, and the blue jacket returns into sight, this time visible with its owner.
He is tall, that is the first thing Achilles notices. His skin is a warm tan that contrasts against the azure of his jacket, the mask covering the top half of his face studded with sapphires and lined with gold. Brown hair the color of fresh soil sits atop his head, unruly, but Achilles can see that the way he tried to style it makes it seem like he had tried to push it back under control.
The man turns, swirling his partner along with him, his hand at her waist. He doesn’t look the slightest bit interested in her, and she looks all the more frustrated because of it.
But Achilles cannot look away - he’s staring and he can’t help it. Who are you? He thinks.
They turn again, and this time the man’s eyes catch him from across the room. Achilles’ own breath hitches when they meet, because his eyes are so warm even from so far away, dark and intense beneath the mask. He knows distantly that he should look away, but he doesn’t - he can’t.
(Something seems to shift around them, in the middle of the courtyard. Achilles looks at him, meets his gaze from across the room, and feels something inside of him fall into place.)
The other man must feel it too, because he pauses, faltering in his steps, causing his partner to trip over him.
The man glances away then, mumbling an apology to his partner, who is now glaring at him. Achilles watches as the other recovers his steps, his eyes fixed on him while the other purposefully does not look his way.
They are moving across the room with the dance, out of his sight. Achilles places his cup on the table behind him to follow them, his eyes fixed on the flashes of blue that appear and disappear in between a sea of colours.
The song swells, and their eyes meet again. His partner spins in front of him, her skirts creating a wide radius between them, but their eyes do not leave each other.
(He cannot see the rest of his face, the top half hidden away by the mask.
What does the rest of him look like? He has a strong nose, no doubt, and maybe a splatter of freckles across his cheeks. Dark lashes already frame his eyes, but it is not the colour so much that seems to ensnare him.
The way he looks at him makes him feel some kind of way - no one else has looked at him like he truly mattered. It was like he said before, everyone else who got close to him only really wanted him for the status it would bring.
But this is a stranger, at a masquerade. He has no idea who he is, and neither does the other know who he is.
It is a heady feeling.)
A turn, and they are moving again, but this time the man’s eyes do not leave him, not even when his partner starts to speak to him. Achilles follows him across the room, walking the perimeter.
The song ends suddenly, and it seems like it had been years since the song had begun. The man’s partner curtsies in front of him, but he doesn’t notice.
Achilles doesn’t know Antilochus is by his side until he feels a hand on his arm, jerking him away from the small universe that had grown between him and the stranger in the blue coat.
“There you are,” he says, a grin in his voice. “We’ve been looking all over for you! You disappeared for a second there.”
The dancers are dispersing from the dance floor, heading towards the tables for food, drink, or new partners before the next dance starts, but the man stays put, their eyes still fixed on each other. His lips are parted in a way that makes Achilles think his brow would be furrowed in confusion. Perhaps he is thinking the same as Achilles: who are you?
“Achilles?” He hears Antilochus to his left. “Are you okay?”
He can’t tear his eyes away. “Who is that?”
Antilochus frowns. “Who’s who?”
“That man,” Achilles elaborates. “The one in the blue jacket.”
He is turning away now, but his eyes are still on him, brown that seem gold against the light of the torches, bathing him in gold and amber.
“It’s a masquerade, Achilles,” Antilochus replies, deadpan. “Besides, this is a Priamides party - we’re not really supposed to know anyone here. He’s probably some nobleman’s son. Now, have you seen Automedon anywhere? I seem to have lost him.”
He is walking away now, tearing his gaze from Achilles, heading towards the tables at the other end of the room. Achilles doesn’t even realize his feet are moving until Antilochus’ arm, which is still on his own, pulls him back.
Achilles tears his eyes away from the man to glance at his friend, who is giving him a concerned look. “Where are you going?”
“I…” Achilles doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t even know the man. “I have to talk to him.”
“What?” Antilochus frowns. “Why him? Why now? We have to find Automedon. You know he has a knack for getting himself into trouble.”
He’s already moving, shrugging his shoulder back to himself, walking away towards the other end of the room. He glances back to make sure the stranger is still there before looking back to Antilochus. “He’ll be fine,” he says. “I just have to talk to him.”
(It’s like a string is pulling him towards the other - impossible to ignore.)
He has already left before Antilochus can respond.
The man is still there when he crosses the room just as another song starts to play. He is standing alone beside a small table tucked into the corner of the courtyard, a cup of wine in his hand. Their eyes meet once again across the way, and Achilles steels himself before crossing the rest of the distance towards the table. The man’s eyes do not leave his for a moment.
It feels like a precious thing when they are finally across from each other, and suddenly Achilles cannot fathom how he has survived this long away from a person such as him. Looking at him makes him feel warm all over, like he is basking under sunlight.
The man speaks first. “I’ve not seen you here before,” he says, and oh, his voice. It is soft and careful, like the sound of silk rustling against cotton sheets.
( Beautiful, his mind thinks unbidden.)
“Neither have I,” he replies, because for some reason, he cannot seem to think of a better response under the other man’s careful gaze. “Who are you?”
The man smiles, a beautiful look for him, and says, “It is a masquerade. The point is to conceal one’s identity.”
“But you were looking at me,” he says. Like you know me, like we’ve been here before, a thousand times, he does not add.
“So were you.”
He says so like it is an excuse, but his teasing smile says so otherwise. Achilles cannot help a grin of his own grow onto his face.
“I couldn’t help it. You’re so…” He doesn’t know how to explain it. “Different from everyone else here.”
“Is that why you came over here then? Just to see how different I am?” The man replies. It could be taken in offense, but Achilles can tell from his face he is more amused than offended. His eyes are still on him, trailing over his hair, across his mask. He is closer now, both of them leaning on the table only a hands-breath away, though Achilles does not remember moving.
Achilles smirks. “I came to get the name of the most beautiful man at the party,” he says in a moment of boldness.
The man looks away, and Achilles can imagine the blush that is spreading over his cheeks underneath the mask.
“You don’t want my name,” he says, looking down at his cup. “It’s tricky, or so I’ve been told. No one can pronounce it right, everyone stumbles over it.”
“I won’t,” Achilles says with certainty. “I’ll never. Yours is a name that should be revered.”
“Don’t say that, you don’t know it yet. What if it’s something horrible like… Polonius, or Hamlet ?”
“Then I would love it all the same, just as I love you already.”
The man lifts his gaze again, settling on him, and a sense of warmth washes over him like the tide. He seems to lean closer, and his fingers brush over Achilles’ where they rest on the table. “Where is it I know you from?”
“We’ve not met before. I would remember someone like you.”
“Would you now?”
“I could never forget.” Their hands are overlapping now, and Achilles feels like they are floating far above the confines of the courtyard. The rest of the partygoers could all be dust and ash, for all he cares. “It feels like my life has just begun after I met you.”
“We only met tonight,” the man says, but he is not backing away - he seems to be even closer than before. There are gold flecks in his eyes, Achilles can see now.
“Is it such a crazy thing to say?”
A moment of consideration. “No,” the man says, quietly, a soft smile on his face. “It’s not.”
Achilles wants to kiss him. To feel those soft lips under his, to taste the sweet tang of the wine he’s been drinking from his mouth. He wants to reach back and untie the man’s mask so that he might reveal the rest of him, each line and shape and shadow that makes up this man in front of him and commit it to memory.
He doesn’t even realize he’s leaning in until the man stops him, a hand on his chest.
“Not here,” the man says, glancing towards the rest of the crowd before them. Another dance has begun, and there are dancers swirling, creating wide arcs across the courtyard.
There is a look of mischief in the man’s face when he says, “Come with me.”
He takes Achilles’ hand, and leads them away.
━
Automedon is by the cheese table, talking with a group of ladies, when he sees it.
There, tucked in between the cobblestones that make up the wall, is a slip of paper, besides one of the casks of wine.
He fakes a cough in order to excuse himself from the conversation, pleading a need for a drink to ease his throat. He glances across the room to make sure no one is watching him before carefully pulling the paper loose, the rock it is held over loose from all the times it’s most likely been moved.
It is a dirtied piece of paper, but intriguing nonetheless. Priam had his own private study, so why would anyone try to hide a piece of paper in a place as inconspicuous as a stone wall when the study would be so much more secure?
He opens it, and his eyes go wide when he sees the signature at the bottom, an impressive flourish belonging to no other than Agamemon of House Atrides.
The stolen papers! He thinks.
He glances back at the partygoers, making sure that no one is paying him any attention before skimming over the contents of the paper. He tells himself it is to make sure that they are not forged copies, but it is really because he knows he would never have the chance to read the real ones for himself.
It reads: … that Lord Menelaus is Lady Hermione’s true father…
His eyes go wide to see it. Hermione, Helen’s daughter, but everyone believed her father was Paris, given she was born after Helen joined the Priamides’ household.
He continues on.
… she is to be betrothed to her cousin Orestes after being claimed by her father, either willing or by force from the House Priamides who had unwillfully claimed her, to fulfill her rightful place as Menelaus’ heir.
Automedon pauses, unsure what it is he is really reading. Are the Atrides really planning to take back Helen’s daughter? He looks back to the gap between the stones of the wall where the papers had been hidden, and wonders if Priam had seen them yet. They were planning an invasion and attack, by the sounds of the messages.
… call each Lord supporting House Atrides to convene on — to confirm plans of reclamation.
It was an invasion, and what’s more, Agamemnon plans on regrouping the other lords who had shown their support during the war a decade ago!
Automedon holds the papers to his chest, glancing back behind him. Suddenly, a carefree night of dancing has turned much more dangerous with the risk of getting caught.
He stuffs the papers into his coat pocket before taking a step back - he needs to find Achilles and Antilochus and get out of here, right now - but he is stopped when his back collides into a solid figure. Dread shoots up his spine when he realizes it is not a wall, but a person.
He turns to find two figures, tall and menacing, looking down at him with confusion. He freezes, because even though this party is a masked one, he still recognizes the figures - he has seen them in the streets before. Hector and Aeneas.
Hector is looking at him with confusion. “Are you okay, friend?”
He doesn’t recognize him. And why should he? Automedon himself is only seventeen, not old enough to be anyone of importance.
But Aeneas is frowning, glancing at the sepia papers sticking out of his pocket from when he had hastily shoved them inside. He glances back to the loosened stones from the wall behind Automedon, and his frown turns to a glare. “Who are you, and what are you doing with those papers?”
Automedon swears he stops breathing, freezing like a rabbit caught underneath a trap.
And really, it is his hesitation that does him in. Hector himself is frowning now, and he seems to have caught on.
“ Atrides,” he all but snarls, and Automedon’s eyes are searching frantically for an exit.
Hector reaches out to grab him, and Automedon runs.
ー
Achilles is led through the corridors of the Priamides’ estate, hand in hand with the stranger he is already halfway in love with.
“Where are you taking me?” He asks, grinning.
The man grins back at him. “My favourite place on the estate, just wait. We’re almost there.”
Achilles follows him, and thinks he would let this man lead him to the end of the world if only he would keep a hold of his hand like this. His touch is soft and gentle, yet firm enough to keep him there beside him, ensuring he doesn’t get lost.
It is nothing like how he’d ever been touched before. He feels drunk on it, a dizzy sort of feeling entering his head.
They come to a clearing, the stone ceilings of the corridors giving way to the inky black night sky above and laurel trees, ivy, and rows and rows of flowers in front of them, bathed in the soft light of the moon.
“The gardens,” the man says, an exhale. He is still holding on to Achilles’ hand, like he couldn’t bear to break away from him either.
“They’re beautiful,” Achilles says, but he is not looking at the flowers.
The man only sighs, not looking at him, his gaze instead fixed on the view in front of them. “I loved it as a child,” he says. “I would always go here when I wanted to get away. Still do, really. I’ve never brought anyone else here before.”
It makes a light feeling enter his chest. “You brought me.”
The man looks at him now, the soft smile still stuck on his face. “You’re not like everyone else. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”
“Neither have I,” Achilles says, his voice soft. The man’s smile turns gentle at that, and he is tugging at his hand again, pulling him into the expanses of greenery.
“Come,” he says. “Let me show you my favourite spot.”
They walk further into the gardens, passing the laurel leaves and fig trees, beds of jasmine and yarrow. Achilles is watching the man the whole time - somehow he seems all the more alluring under the blue light the moon is casting over them, making the jewels on his mask shimmer with each movement, reflecting off the shine of his hair.
(There is a spot of hair that brushes his jaw that is sticking out - a small tuft of brown just behind his ear. Achilles wants to brush it back, trailing his fingers across his skin as he does so. It looks even softer under the moonlight than it did back in the fire-lit courtyard.)
There is the sound of rushing water nearby, and they turn the bend to approach a fountain made of white marble, sea nymphs carved delicately as the water sprout out of the top.
“Here,” the man says. “This is my favourite spot.”
Achilles smiles. “I would have known.”
The man gives him a mirthful look, leaning against the fountain’s edge. “And how could that be? You don’t know me yet.”
“I’d like to,” Achilles says, and pulls him closer. He wants to be close to him, like they are the only two in the entire world. The way the man looks at him makes him feel like they are. “Won’t you tell me your name?”
The man shakes his head, smiling. “Why would you want my name? We aren’t like to see each other much after tonight.”
“Who says that?” Achilles asks. “I would find you, if only to see your eyes again, or just to hear your voice. You have a voice that makes people fall in love with you.”
The man grins. “Are you speaking from experience?”
He feels like he is. “I might be.”
The man chuckles, shaking his head with what Achilles hopes is amusement. “Your words are too sweet. Are you sure you aren’t some poet I haven’t heard of yet?”
“Would you like it if I was?”
( I would be anything you’d want me to, Achilles thinks to himself.)
“It depends…” the man says softly, pulling Achilles closer still, so much so that he can feel his careful breath on his cheek. His eyes are dark in the moonlight, painted in silver. “... on how sweet your lines are.”
They are so close, Achilles almost feels lightheaded with the proximity.
(He has never been so grateful to skip a feast in all his life.)
“I would show you, if you’d like,” he murmurs, his eyes trailing down to the man’s lips. Soft and pink - he wants to lick at them, suck his bottom lip in between his teeth.
The man nods. “I would.”
Achilles cannot help himself any longer. He leans forward and kisses him.
And oh. It is heaven.
He is so sweet, and soft, and perfect , . Kissing him is a sacrament, the way their mouths meet like they were meant for each other. Achilles cannot imagine a bliss greater than this.
They part all too soon, and the cool air that rushes between them as they part is jarring. The man’s brown eyes meet Achilles’, and he knows he is done for.
“How was that?” He asks, his voice almost a whisper between them.
A breath. Then, “Show me again.”
Achilles smiles as he kisses him again.
The kiss goes slowly, seeming to span on for years. A hand is in his hair, toying with the long strands that reach past his shoulder. Achilles is holding onto his waist, and marvels at how warm the man is even beneath his coat.
They part, foreheads pressed together so that they would not be so far away.
“Patroclus,” the man says, like a gasp. “My name is Patroclus.”
Achilles smiles. “Patroclus,” he repeats, but it sounds more like a sigh. “Patroclus.”
He was wrong, his name is not some ugly word. It is the most beautiful thing he has ever heard.
“Patroclus,” Achilles says, kissing him again, short this time. “Patroclus.”
He can’t stop saying it, like he is a supplicant offering prayer to a god. “Patroclus,” he says between kissing, pressing them wherever he is close enough to - his mouth, across the border of his mask. “Patroclus- Patroclus- Patroclus-”
Patroclus is laughing, his chest shaking with the gentle sound, shaking his head. “Why are you saying it like that?” he asks.
Achilles gives him a confused smile. “Like what?”
“Like it’s something important. Like it means something.”
He pulls back, but only for an instant. Patroclus’ lips are red and swollen. “Because it does,” Achilles says simply. “It is your name, of course it is important. It’s yours, and it’s beautiful.”
Patroclus looks at him, a soft look filled with awe, and leans forward to capture his mouth once again. Achilles lets him.
“Let me see you,” Patroclus whispers to him, his fingers playing with the tied ribbon that holds Achilles’ mask in place, and oh, Achilles nods, wanting nothing more. Nimble fingers reach for the ribbon, and his mask comes loose, leaving his face exposed to the night, the breeze cool against his skin.
He is watching Patroclus’ reaction - the way his mouth parts in an ‘oh’. The way he stares almost makes him want to duck his head away. Never has anyone looked at him like that.
It is a moment of Patroclus staring at him, his eyes roving over every feature, saying nothing else. He seems almost dazed.
“What is it?” Achilles asks him.
“Nothing,” Patroclus responds after a moment, shaking his head. “You’re just… you’re beautiful.”
Patroclus smiles as Achilles feels a flush creep up his neck. “You are,” he insists.
(He knows it, indirectly. People have been telling him all his life that he was, but the way Patroclus says it now is different. The way he says it makes him believe that he means it.)
Suddenly, Achilles is filled with an overwhelming desire to see him as well. “I want to see you, too,” he says, and Patroclus nods with a smile.
It is when Achilles goes to lift the mask from his face that a shout in their direction shatters the quiet peace that had surrounded them. It is sharp, piercing, and urgent.
“Achilles!” It calls, and both he and Patroclus whip around to see Automedon and Antilochus running down the corridor towards them, an urgent look on their faces. Around the corner, behind them, barrel Priamides men, chasing after them with angry faces.
“Come on!” Antilochus shouts. “We’ve got to leave now!”
Achilles turns back to Patroclus, who is now frowning. The other turns back to him, a frown on his face. “Achilles?”
It is then that Achilles realizes he had forgotten to give his own name.
“As in, Achilles of House Atrides?”
The way Patroclus is looking at him now makes him feel like everything around them is shattering like glass. “I can expla-”
But he doesn’t have the time, because Automedon and Antilochus reach him, and one of them grabs his shoulder as they pass, hauling him away. Patroclus only stares at him with a look of disbelief.
“Come on!” Antilochus says, his voice strained. “We have to go now, Achilles!”
“Antilochus, wait-” Achilles protests, but he is being dragged away, and the Priamides men have already reached Patroclus, who looks so hurt it makes his heart break.
(Whatever these two did during the short time they were there, Achilles is going to kill them for it.)
“Patroclus!” He calls back, but it is too late - he is out of sight. Antilochus is tugging relentlessly at his arm, dragging him away and out of the Priamides’ estate.