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Near white sunlight burns Achilles’ raw eyes as he forces them open. His insides feel gutted, his heart freshly torn out, and everything within him feels as though he should already be dead. So why does the world around him look so pristine? So placid, undisturbed… what is bringing him such disquiet, if not the world around him? Frowning, he rises from the plush bedding, the sleek linens falling to his naked sides. He is… where is he? The bedroom is as luxurious as the bed he reclines in; dressers covered with bronze and gold trinkets and tools, including a large bowl filled with fresh water that he washes his face in. When he glimpses his reflection in the bronze mirror, he finds his hair barely past his shoulders, features more youthful and not etched with the years of war his mind swears he has experienced.
How?
Finding a forest green chiton laid out, he dresses and fumbles out into the strangely empty halls.
Something is…wrong.
His footsteps feel heavier, slower. Where he once stepped with confidence, his lightness of foot legendary, his steps feel unsure, unstable as they connect with the stone floor. Each step in this long hallway seems to be pooled with blessed, golden sunlight that helps with his nerves. After passing what feels like an unnumerable amount of openings in the columns, he finally pauses to peer through, the light dimming enough for him to observe his surroundings. Where there was once silence and stillness, a cool breeze tickles his nose, rustling through the scrub bushes and trees. In the distance, the deep ocean splashes against the beach, its consistent rush like a calming heartbeat. It smells fresh, clean, and like- home.
“Phthia,” Achilles breathes, his anxiety finally making way for a lighthearted hope. He is home.
Perhaps… had everything truly been just a foul nightmare?
Excitement thrums within him at the possibilities. If he makes a right turn at this intersection of columns here- no longer as vast as they had seemed when he was lost- he will be in his father’s business chambers. Has he made the choice to leave yet? If he jumps out of the window and races to the beach, will he see his mother? Is it not too late to say no, to refuse the Greek army? Heart picking up, he hustles through the chambers now filled with the mutterings of faceless visitors and servants, all of them bowing their head upon their Prince’s presence.
Achilles cannot be bothered with the formalities, bursting through the large wooden door to find the main hall empty. Has his father taken a recess from politics today? No matter. He already knows the way to his private chambers. Just as Achilles turns to race these strangely unsteady feet through the shortcut in the back halls, a joyous giggle stalls him in his tracks. He’s not sure why it stops him; there are plenty of servant children and adopted wards that roam these halls, playing the same games that he and Patroclus-
The name shudders within him like a violent earthquake. It is only compounded when he looks at the small child wearing a matching green chiton- a toddler, no older than maybe four years old. Her brown skin, round, button nose, the curly hair tossed back as she laughs so freely… she resembles his soulmate so much that he cannot look away.
“Child-” he begins, shivering at the trepidation in his dry voice. He coughs, once more to both calm himself and obtain her attention. “Child. Where is your father?”
The little girl blinks her wide, mischievous eyes at him, and Achilles is rocked once more by her familiar emerald gaze. With a wave, she cackles and takes off into the back garden.
“Wait!”
The child is unabashed as she races away, Achilles barely able to keep up with her as she weaves and dodges her way in between the trees. Frustration builds thick in his throat as he always finds himself just within reach, only to experience failure. He is Achilles, son of Peleus, son of sea goddess Thetis, swift-footed, the Greatest of the Greeks! How is he unable to catch this waif of a child, this mischievous infant that so much reminds him of both his beloved and himself?!
The girl stops one last time in a pool of sunlight at the edge of the forest, bracing her feet for a great leap from the stone wall. As though she truly is his own, Achilles’ heart fills with fear for her safety.
“No!”
Ignoring him, she jumps, and Achilles cries out. Instead of the inevitable tears of pain that should have followed, he hears uproarious laughter. Confused, Achilles hurtles over the stones and out of the trees.
“Achilles. There you are. Tag, again? It’s as though I have two toddlers.”
The rich, mellow voice near brings Achilles to his knees, vision tunneling into the sight in front of him. Cradling the little girl in his arms stands Patroclus, richly adorned in a long, deep purple chiton, his short locs held back from his forehead with a golden band. He wears matching golden bands on his biceps, curling with muscle as he makes sure she sits properly. He looks every ounce the regal he deserves to be, and tears of pride and happiness sting in Achilles’ eyes.
“Philtatos.” It’s all he can say, and yet there’s so much. You’re alive. I’ve missed you. I thought I lost you. I don’t know how. We’ve never been apart. I’ll never let you go.
“Well,” Patroclus continues, tilting slightly to show the side not crinkled by the handsy child in his arms. “What do you think?”
“The very visage of a king.”
Patroclus’ cheeks warm, and he looks down as he smiles that soft, bright smile that Achilles adores.
“You did ask them to make me look more like the royal spouse. I’m sure you would look much better than I in this color.”
“No. Nonsense. You look simply radiant, magnificent-” Alive. “I could never compare.”
Patroclus stops his compliments with a wave of his hand. “Enough, with your sweet tongue.”
“Sweet!” The babe pipes up, forcing Achilles’ gaze back to her as she plays with Patroclus’ broach.
“Whose child-” Suddenly, he cannot speak, his tongue like lead.
That child cannot be theirs, which means that Patroclus has had… relations, with someone else. Which of the women had caught his fancy so much that they bore his child? Who else in this country had eyes so much like his, eyes that drew his beloved’s attention from him and only him? How could he not have seen it? Had Patroclus hidden it from him until it was too late? Is she nearby? Does she expect that Patroclus be by her side, though he is already for all intents and purposes Achilles’ own? Does the child feel no respect for Achilles, as she is raised in his home but is not his?
Jealousy rages within him, but Achilles cannot refuse him his own daughter- he too, has a child.
When did he have a child?
Why does he know that?
Patroclus frowns, placing the girl on the stones. She ambles away to sit in the flowerbed.
“I can see that look in your eyes- stop it. She is ours, Achilles. Both a thank you and a parting gift, in a way, from the wondrous Aphrodite.”
Aphrodite? Wondrous? “What?”
“Yes. I know sometimes her playfulness reminds you that you are no longer swift footed, but there’s no need to pretend that she isn’t yours. Do not insult her or me that way.”
Achilles jerks back. “Not… swift footed?”
“Is that what you- Ugh. No. Did you perhaps have strange dreams from drinking too much last night? When you refused to journey to Troy, it was a given that your godhood would wither. In exchange for your suit of peace, Aphrodite asked what you would like most, and you told her you desired a family with me. So now, we have our daughter. In addition, Apollo has blessed our family and all of Phthia with good health for the rest of your reign.”
Apollo?! Raising a hand, Achilles has to close his eyes while he processes everything Patroclus is telling him. Apollo and Aphrodite despise him… or, if he hasn’t gone to Troy, they despise the rest of the Greeks. That no longer includes him. And no wonder he’s felt so much slower, so unsure. He’s given up his power, a core piece of his identity, something he remembers terrifying him so much that he could hardly breathe at night sometimes for fear of missing it. How could he have done something so monumental, and remember none of it?
“What is it, Achilles? Have you- were…” Patroclus wavers, unsure when Achilles doesn’t react with immediate joy and understanding. “Were you regretting it? Your lost godhood? Your lost glory?”
A blur of images flashes through Achilles’ mind- donning beautiful armor, raising a bloodied spear to the sky, the satisfaction of weaving through his enemies and cutting them down like butter, thousands of men chanting his name, treasures filling his tents. It had all seemed so valuable, in his dream. And yet-
Achilles locks gazes with Patroclus. He is sure that if he looks long enough, if he loves hard enough, he will scrub clean the image of his beloved drained of blood, murdered by both a foreign prince and Achilles’ hubris. So what if he cannot run as fast as he once could? He would rather spend that time by Patroclus’ side. So what if he would never have glory? Patroclus will live a long life, and they have a child- a child!- together. They will never part. Everything will be okay, and he will make sure of it.
“N-”
“You really cannot answer with conviction? Even now?”
?
“I suppose I should have expected this.”
Achilles’ brow furrows. “Patroclus?”
Scoffing, Patroclus turns away. “Nothing but my lifeblood will satisfy Aristos Achaeon. I see. Let us go, child.”
“Wait. Wait. I don’t regret it, Patroclus, what are you-”
Achilles moves to stop him from leaving, but his legs are frozen solid. He can only watch in horror as Patroclus gently nudges the small child still playing in the flowers. Rather than standing, she swiftly disintegrates into the wind, her ashes blinding as they stick to the trail of tears running down Achilles’ face.
“Patroclus! You- that was our daughter! Why would you- What- what did I say? What have I done?”
Lightning crashes in the distance, the once vibrant, lovely day quickly darkening into deep grey storm clouds. The wind is tumultuous, uprooting the beautiful garden until it is nothing but shreds.
“Indeed, Achilles. What have you done?” whispers Patroclus, slowly turning with a look so searingly hateful that Achilles shrinks into himself. “Why was this never good enough for you? Why was I never good enough for you?!”
“You- you are!” Achilles sobs, fighting to be heard against the wind. He tears his clothes; he grips so hard at his aching heart. “You always have been! You have to believe me, Patroclus I-”
“No, Achilles, I wasn’t. I wasn’t, and now we can never, will never, have any of this. Just death and the immortal legacy of a broken man.”
The ground rumbles so hard that Achilles falls low- damn these weakened knees! The earth shatters into pieces as he hears Phthia behind him collapse into rubble, the ground falling into the green and orange flames of Tartarus. Smoke and ash rise from all around, making the storm-darkened sky even worse. Soon, all that remains is the small outcrop of rock that they stand upon. Worst of all, Patroclus’ regal outfit is gone, now replaced with a tattered white chiton soaked with blood at a gaping spear wound. His locs, lengthened with the sudden passage of time, blow in the wind, and his bleeding eyes blaze with judgment as he stares down at the broken prince.
“Was it worth it?” he whispers, his once beautiful smile now a bloody maw.
“No,” Achilles wretchedly begs, holding his hands out in a plea for mercy. “No, no, no it wasn’t worth it, your life was not worth any of it! No riches, no glory would ever compare! I would take it all back if I could! I’ll do anything! Please, Patroclus, listen to me, you have to- I need you to-”
“To die? Very well.”
Without a backwards glance, Patroclus slowly walks to the edge of the cliff.
“No! No!”
Heart racing so fast it might implode, Achilles finally unleashes that same godlike power that had caused everyone so much anguish, sprinting forward. To save Patroclus, or to jump off with him, he’s unsure, but in the end it doesn’t matter. He’s too late.
Patroclus falls off the edge and out of sight, while a shattered Achilles cannot go any further. His woeful screams join the cacophony of the storm, rising and falling with the moan of the wind.
“Patroclus,” he wails. “Patroclus, no, please…I cannot do this anymore, I cannot do it,” he weeps, head prostrate to the ground, fingers crushed into the dirt. “I don’t want this, I don’t want to wake up, but I don’t want to be here. Sleep, brother of Death, how can you torment me like this? I know I deserve it, but I am weak, I beg of peace, I beg Death to return him to me or take me instead, someone please…”
He knows what comes next when he awakens. He must kill Hector.
No.
He’s already killed Hector.
There’s nothing left.
Why should he continue to breathe?
Why does he continue to breathe?
The rest of the ground surrounding Achilles crumbles, and he descends into the flames.
“Achilles. Achilles?”
“Daddy? Papa, what’s-”
A gentle hush, followed by small footsteps, followed by a small hand on his hand and large one on his cheek.
“Achilles, it’s okay… I’m here. We’re here. You can wake up.”