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His birthday began with the parting of the reeds. Across the mayfields the south wind blew, bringer of storms; and it was this late summer that the cows came home. He, Achilles, swiftfoot, ironheart - had been brought to the monastery wrapped in lamb’s wool.
The cowbells rang, the herons flew overhead - in the shade of white wings Brother Phoinix tilted his head, recognizing the omen. “A new beginning,” he rasped, twirling prayer beads in between gnarled fingers - there came wood of myrtle, then oak, and pine. Finally, his fingers landed on the milkwood bead.
He grinned his toothless grin.
The monastery’s great stone door was hauled open, and there the babe was - an orphan child entrusted to them, carried on the shoulders of Lord Notus himself. Brother Phoinix stumbled over to the basket, trembling hands removing its woven lid.
“A strong grip you have!” he cried, as a tiny fist grabbed his finger. He could sense the boy’s spirit as surely as the taste of rain on his tongue - of the long, cool, earth - sleeping beneath his feet.
“And a name? By the south wind, let us have his name,” Brother Phoinix requested.
The boy’s name arrived in mid-autumn. By then, his birthday had passed. The monks came to know him in the dawn, when his cries awakened them from the wood of deep slumber. They came to know him in the dusk, when the fires flickered and grew dim within the braziers of his eyes; such eyes, he had, and the irony - that he had been called the Blind Monk’s Boy until then.
Achilles grew up wilful and strong - and always, as Brother Phoinix had foretold - he knew where he belonged.
The cowbells rang, signaling high noon.
“Drat!” Achilles cried, jumping up from his rock. The moss-covered boulder was where he whiled away the hours, shaking his crooked staff. How he hated being a cowherd, when the cows would do as they pleased. Just yesterday, one had given birth - he’d hauled the calf’s legs with all his strength, skin tinged bloody red all the way up to his elbows. Immediately, the animal had stood up and started walking, shaky legs and all.
Achilles had come to the conclusion that there was no point being a cowherd. A useless job, like catching water in a net, or counting grains of golden sand. Brother Phoinix would not take him on as an initiate. “You were meant for other things, Achilles,” the blind monk insisted. “You were born under the milkwood tree.”
“Under the milkwood tree,” he muttered to himself, grouchily. If only he knew what it meant.
He was turning eleven that year. Brother Phoinix had counted his years, a new milkwood seed placed in the jar, rattling when he shook it. When he was old and dying, the jar would be broken. To the earth he would return, as all eventually did. And a new copse of trees would grow, the pathway to the next life. The monks had so many of these traditions. Achilles could only follow along.
The best thing about his birthday was of course, the milk and bread. Freshly baked from the oven, sweet milk collected with his own hands. He would be left alone to eat, to savor. A special meal, one day out of the year. He had been raised to keep himself company. Not a difficult task for a young cowherd, when the rolling hills became his own.
He ran barefooted, through the brambles, over the rough-shorn grass - until he reached the promontory, overlooking the island and its shoreline, a pale crescent of sand. There he sat on his mossy throne, and pretended he was lord of the isle. “Am I a cowherd or a king?” he asked himself, shading his eyes from the sun, sand, and wind.
Somewhere over the gales, his words would carry. Perhaps one day, whoever had left him here would come to claim him.
Afternoon labored on, the heat making him drowsy. He watched the cows grazing through half-lidded eyes. The monks did not read or write anything beyond scripture, but Brother Phoinix had gifted him books and scrolls featuring the layout of the land. It was through these that Achilles knew they lived off the coast of the mainland.
Beyond the distant clouds and the smoky foothills was the home of kings and princes alike. Beyond that - no one knew. So much of the world left unrevealed, Achilles thought. What a pity it was.
Achilles had spent many a day exploring the island, wondering what lay within the groves of quiet trees. Along this abundant soil, all manner of plants grew. It was an evergreen isle, as Brother Phoinix called it. Where travelers had arrived upon the crisp, choppy waters, knowing this was where they would heal and survive.
True enough, Achilles had never known death. For no one was allowed to die on the island, lest they sully the sacred grounds of the monastery. He had watched boats lining the coast from his mossy throne, come to retrieve the ill and ending. They always knew. When the life jars broke, they knew that they would die.
But, he was only eleven. His jar would not break for a long time yet. And so, with these thoughts far from his mind, he ventured into the glades of the woodlands - tapping his staff to find even ground. The sound of whistling pierced through the air - but it was not his own, the source being one he could not identify. Perhaps it came from the trees, an errant wood nymph, a trick of the ears.
“The whistling wind,” Achilles chanted, the way he had been taught as an apotropaic charm. “Whistling wind within the willows I wander-”
He knew other charms, of course. Not that the wood could ever harm him. He was too much a child of the isle, his heart nestled within its roots, his blood flowing among the river and its waterfalls.
It was this calling that Brother Phoinix had sensed within him - this second nature that revealed itself with each passing year. Achilles, bullheaded as he was - did not notice. He did not see the reeds parting way in anticipation of his footsteps - did not glimpse the bowing of the branches.
The isle was attuned to him as strings to the lyrist’s fingers - and would answer his call. But he had never called anyone or anything in his life.
That is, of course - until he found the dragon.
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Under the milkwood tree, a wisp of smoke curled. It wrapped around the living trunk as a ribbon to a scroll. Achilles stood beneath the shade, dappled sunlight blinding him if he shifted his weight.
And he stared.
For where the smoke ended, and began - was a creature the size of a newborn calf. Achilles half expected it to spring to its feet and saunter away, much like the one he had delivered.
But the longer he stared, the stranger it became. Where the light hit, the dust motes in the air were visible in momentary brilliance - for the creature had skin like glass, so solid and clear it mirrored the surrounding wood, and all its verdant shades.
It was curled defensively in a nest of dried leaves and stones, fast asleep - slight movement of rising and falling the only indicator of breath. Achilles dared to lean closer, peering at its half-hidden head - short spikes running along its crested body - ending in the smoke tendril of its tail.
One step forward, to get a clearer look.
Its reflective skin was arranged like that of a conifer. As it breathed, the scales separated slightly from its body, a moving stream of green and copper and white, the colors fading towards the edges - as though the artist had become impatient, and hastened to finish. Its forelegs were tucked against its breast - a hint of talon peeking out.
Another step forward, wanting - needing - to look closer still.
A loud snap pierced the air as he stepped on a twig.
“Shit,” he muttered, and clapped his hands over his mouth - heart beginning to pound wildly.
One smooth jade eyelid slid open.
He held his breath, as the eye of the dragon stared right at him. Its pupil narrowed into a point, and within it Achilles could see his own reflection, like an insect caught in amber.
Neither moved, each regarding the other.
He had broken out into a cold sweat, hands beginning to tremble over his mouth.
“Easy there,” he said, voice coming out in a croak. No apotropaic charm was going to work on this one.
He held up a placating hand. “Good - good dragon …”
Nervously, he took a step back.
The creature moved quick as lightning, unfurling its body to strike.
Achilles frowned as he realized it had no wings. Instead, two bony stumps on the back, pink scars where the flesh had healed over. Somebody had cut them off.
A flicker of revulsion sprang within him, at the thought of such an act.
Terrifying as they were, these creatures were noble and revered - beasts of legend, masters of the winds.
The dragon reared its head back and snarled at him, showing two rows of teeth sharp as daggers.
Panicking, Achilles’ gaze roamed desperately until it landed on a jagged rock at the base of the tree. Feeling like a fool, he ran for it, a yell tearing from his body -
He picked it up and hurled it at the creature with all his might.
He didn’t wait to see what happened. He turned around and fled.
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Brother Phoinix must have been looking for him, but Achilles could not ward off the anxiousness that took hold like a current. His thoughts were shaken, images of the encounter playing back in his mind. There was dirt under his fingernails, still, from where he had dug at the ground so frantically to grab hold of the rock.
The pathway through the wood had seemed endless, distance multiplying the further he ran, his breath coming in droves, vision blurring. He was going to get a scolding for shirking his duties, not that it mattered - the cows were perfectly capable of finding their way back to the shed.
“Achilles?” A knocking on the door, a jangle of wooden beads.
Achilles had been sitting on the cold stone floor, back against the door, head in his hands. He fully expected the lecture to come, but Brother Phoinix simply called him down for supper and went on his way.
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His stomach rumbled as the meal was served. The bread was especially fluffy this year, toasted golden-brown on the outside, soft and mellow as cotton on the inside. It waited on the plate, perfect and enticing. Brother Phoinix heated up the milk, a calm and practiced movement - and poured it carefully over the loaf.
Achilles had dreamed of eating this all year. But as he swallowed, his throat was dry as parchment - and he could not summon the appetite. He sat with his hands curled into fists, staring at the table, guilt pooling in him like the milk at the bottom of the plate.
Brother Phoinix, of course, assumed that he was eating, sightless eyes clouded over in translucent blue. “Good, eh?” he chuckled, and lifted his wine cup in a toast. “Eleven years. And many more to come.” His mouth stretched in a warm, gummy grin. “Many more to come.”
Achilles felt even worse, if that was possible.
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He had been pacing in his room from the first touch of moonlight. Outside, the owl hooted. From his window, he could make out the nocturnal landscape of the island, inky black trees twisted like claws, seeking to grasp the horizon.
It was a sturgeon moon tonight, and the flurry of hope swam across him in its path to the shore. He remembered what it felt like to gaze into the eye of the dragon, and be caught, crystallized -
Somewhere, within that narrowing pupil, there had been a trace of fear.
Fear of what? Of Achilles?
Something so familiar about it. So human.
He felt as though his very shadow had been stolen in that gaze, a part of himself that he had left behind, deep in the whistling wood.
“Drat,” he muttered to himself, placing his hand over his chest, where iron weighed him down - knowing what he needed to do.
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The creature was gone.
Achilles walked in circles, one hand in front of his face to help his eyes adjust to the dark. The milkwood tree welcomed him solemnly, its branches curling up in a canopy, forming a series of entangling webs that warded off the light.
Its trunk was split down the middle, a feature Achilles had never noticed - for the gap was so small, it could not have possibly fit a grown man.
And indeed, it was not a grown man hidden beneath the bracken and moss.
Achilles frowned, drawing closer. “What …?”
Labored breathing.
He could hear it coming in short intervals, lips smacking, a pained intake of air. He did not try to mask his movements, or quiet his steps. Instinct told him it was better for the creature to be aware he was approaching.
Carefully, he swept aside the ferns and lichen covering the gap in the tree. The trunk gave way like a cupped palm, and in its upturned hand -
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be at all.
Achilles felt his eyes growing wide, his insides freezing still.
A boy. A child. Eyes sealed shut, curled up so tightly Achilles could not tell his size, or how old he was. The boy seemed unconscious, for he did not flinch, did not awaken as Achilles drew near.
And then he saw it. The boy’s right leg, swelling at the ankle, bent in a strangle angle. The skin was broken, red and raw, dried blood collected around the wound.
Achilles’ heart sank, realization seeping into his gut.
The stone’s throw.
That was why he hadn’t been chased.
There was no doubt in his mind who the boy was, or what.
Achilles placed a hand on the boy’s arm, fingers meeting clammy skin. He shook the boy gently. The boy did not budge.
He stood uncertainly, trying to think of what to do. The wound, bad as it was, did not appear life-threatening. The boy had clearly collapsed from the pain. Achilles hesitated. He had spent most of his life learning how to tend to the cows, among them, newborn calves with weak legs.
Surely a dragon was different?
“Stop it,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head. “ You did this. And you know what Brother Phoinix always says. From touch comes harm. From harm comes healing.” He repeated the words again, the litany of the young cowherd. A simple meditation the monks lived by, to shoulder and accept the responsibility of tending to the island.
Steeling his resolve, he brushed the rest of the undergrowth away. He slid his arms underneath the unconscious boy, wrapped them securely around the shoulders, under the knees - and lifted him away from the milkwood’s embrace.
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The boy woke up as he was carrying him into the kitchen. Through half-open eyelids, the pupils expanded, the colors around them shifting to absorb the light. Achilles looked away, so as not to alarm him. He set him down on a wicker chair, and examined the wound. He had dealt with worse.
Slumped to one side, the boy blinked at him, unfocused. As Achilles added more kindling to the fireplace, the boy shifted closer to the source of that heat and shut his eyes -
Which flew open as Achilles began to set the bone.
The boy’s mouth twisted in the beginning of a yowl, face going white.
“I’m sorry!” Achilles cried, loosening his grip. “It will hurt, but not for long, I swear!”
His words did nothing, for the boy stared at him, full-blown recognition settling in. He jerked his leg back, scrambling in his chair, trying to escape. His skin began to ripple, breaking out in a sheen of scales; his nails, gripping the armrests, elongating and curving into sharp, glittering talons.
“Oh no -” Achilles gasped, getting to his feet and scurrying into the corner not to be in the way. “Just wait a minute -”
There was no stopping it.
He knew he was not supposed to look. But even as he shielded his eyes, the transformation occurred between the gaps of his fingers - and it was a sight to behold, the way the lines between human and beast wavered and stretched.
A roar, strangled and high-pitched.
The creature staggered around the kitchen, knocking over pots and pans, unable to control its size or its strength.
“Wait! Your leg!” Achilles warned, just as it let out a startled yelp, collapsing to the ground, its back leg sticking out. “I have to set the bone! Let me help you!” Achilles insisted.
The creature opened its mouth and bared its teeth at him, snarling. The sound was like a low growl emanating from its chest.
It was really smaller than Achilles had initially thought, once he got over the shock. Very clearly a child dragon. He didn’t know how he had mistaken it for anything else.
Him. He didn’t know how he had mistaken him for anything else.
“It was stupid of me,” Achilles admitted, raising both arms to show he wouldn’t try anything. He sank slowly to his knees, to show he wouldn’t make any sudden movements. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was very stupid of me.”
The snarling lowered.
He held the dragon’s gaze.
“I was born under the milkwood tree,” Achilles told him. “Brother Phoinix said it is a tree of nurturing. Of belonging.” He swallowed. “That’s why you went there, didn’t you? Hoping it would heal you, after what I did.”
The snarling stopped.
The dragon blinked once, twice - a very human gesture indeed - and regarded Achilles, curiosity entering his features.
He had a sleek, long face, much like his body. Not quite serpentine - much paler around the eyes and nostrils. And his ears - soft ovals, ending in wisps, as though they had been fashioned from smoke.
How very striking he was to look at - Achilles could hardly believe he was right here, in the monks’ kitchen.
“Did you hope it would do more?” Achilles questioned, gesturing at the pink scars, the stumps, on the dragon’s back where he had once held the power of flight.
“Did you hope it could give back what you lost?”
A puff of breath was released - like a gentle cry.
Achilles felt his heart sink even further. “I’m sorry about your wings,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to mend that - but if you’ll let me, I can still help you.”
He thought his words would fall on deaf ears. Even though the dragon responded to speech, there was no telling if he truly understood. And then -
That wispy head crept closer, neck extending.
Achilles winced.
If he would be eaten by a dragon, then perhaps it was his fate.
Another puff of air grazed his cheek. The dragon’s nose nudged his shoulder, the touch fleeting, and hesitant.
But the eyes were watchful and calm, the last traces of fear gone.
Achilles’ hand hovered, trying to gauge if the dragon would snap. His fingers rested on the side of that head, brushing over each individual scale - so smooth and delicate, thinly cut, half moons over the skin.
When it became clear the dragon would not attack, Achilles stroked his head, and watched the eyelids blink again and again. He allowed himself a smile. “Alright. Let’s get to work.”
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It was the best job he had ever done. The cows would be proud.
He soaked a clean linen in hot water and carefully dabbed the broken skin, slathering it with Brother Phoinix’s trusty ointment to speed up the healing. Then he wrapped it in a strip of cotton and tied it in a knot.
“There,” he said, grinning up at the dragon-turned-boy, proud of his work.
“Doesn’t even hurt anymore, does it?”
The boy had been observing him keenly, eyes flickering at every slight movement. He tested out his leg, swinging it back and forth. There was a small grimace, but no sound of pain. In fact, he had not made any sounds at all. Achilles didn’t know if he could.
Achilles poured out the water and began to put his equipment away, trying not to look too long at the boy, who was very much naked. He had tried to offer a blanket, but the boy had stubbornly shaken his head, content to bask in the warmth of the hearth.
“Well …” Achilles cleared his throat, at a loss for words.
What was he supposed to do, carry him back into the wood? Then what? He could hardly fly away.
“Where did you come from?” Achilles asked.
The boy stared back at him blankly.
Achilles tried again. “Where is your home?”
Nothing.
He pursed his lips and tilted his head to one side. So perhaps the boy didn’t understand his words at all. Then how had he known? How had he known to extend his trust?
The boy smacked his lips together, shifting in his chair. He surveyed the expanse of the kitchen, taking in each item in sight. His gaze landed on the covered plate Achilles had kept in the corner, hoping to eat tomorrow.
“Hungry?” Achilles asked, and uncovered his birthday meal. “It’s kind of soggy and cold now. But still good.”
He held the plate out to the boy, who leaned forwards and sniffed.
Slowly, the boy reached out and broke off a piece. He did it very gently, glancing at Achilles every so often. He popped it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed; features lighting up.
He broke off another, dipped it in the milk, and ate that, too. Soon enough, it was almost all gone.
“You can have the last piece,” Achilles shrugged, when the boy cast him a questioning glance.
The last piece was gobbled up.
Then the boy sighed, patting his stomach with satisfaction.
He caught Achilles’ eye, and beamed.
What a smile it was. The sweetest smile Achilles had ever seen.
And it was only the beginning.
Patroclus’ name arrived in spring. In the afternoons the place was deserted, the monks leaving to perform their various tasks.
The boys weaved through the halls, ducking behind doors and pillars if they heard someone passing by.
“Here,” Achilles said. He crouched over, helping Patroclus climb onto his back, like they had grown accustomed to in the days he could not walk.
He took Patroclus to his boulder high up on the hill, where they watched for tiny boats, pretending they were lords of the isle. Achilles cupped his hands around his mouth. “Are we cowherds or are we kings?” he crowed, listening to his voice echoing down the steep incline. Patroclus mimicked his action, but said nothing.
Everywhere he went, the dragon boy followed, without a word.
They stretched out on their backs, weaving blades of grass into long strings.
They counted the clouds to the thousands.
They chased the cows, laughing all the way.
Patroclus’ was a silent laughter, mouth open, eyes crinkling - but nothing would ever come out. He would repeat words Achilles said, mimicking their shape, rounding his lips, moving his tongue. He would learn them, but was unable to produce their sounds.
At nightfall he transformed. And in his true form, his voice returned.
That first night, Achilles had carried Patroclus down the corridor, deciding he would rest better in a comfortable bed. His fingers had gone shaky with jitters as he lit the fire - an abrupt knowledge unfolding that he, Achilles - had a dragon in his room.
He had watched the flames ignite in Patroclus’ irises, a look of astonishment on the boy’s face as he lingered in front of the fire.
Patroclus had not wanted to sleep in human form, vulnerable; with his bandaged leg and inability to escape. So Achilles had turned around politely, waiting for him to transform.
He’d been amused by the dragon’s little rituals before settling down to sleep.
First, Patroclus had warmed his tail in the fire, the flames licking over his scales, glancing right off him. Then, he’d nosed around Achilles’ bed, finding lumpy pillows, a few rolled up socks, and an old straw doll that had been a companion for many a sleepless night.
Patroclus had piled these treasures in the middle of the floor, arranging them carefully in the shape of a nest. And then he had stretched, yawned, and turned in a circle; once, twice, thrice - twelve times - before finally lowering himself on top of the pile.
He’d kept his eyes open, watching Achilles cautiously until he backed away to his own bed.
It had been the same the next night, and the next.
Each day, they ventured over the pastures, into the wood. Patroclus would scavenge for sticks, leaves, and stray stones. He had finally agreed to wear one of Achilles’ shirts, and would stuff the pockets full with these findings.
Achilles had no idea what the criteria for proper nest material was - but his room was beginning to overflow, the scent of the forest winding through the air in juniper berry and sweet pine.
The other problem was food. At first, in the recovery stage, he had snuck part of his supper out of the kitchen, every evening. But as Patroclus grew stronger, his leg beginning to mend, so did his appetite.
He had eaten three cows in the course of a month, and Achilles was beginning to worry how long he could hide the decreasing stock from Brother Phoinix.
“You’re a dragon,” he said sternly to Patroclus one day, folding his hands over his hips. “You’re supposed to hunt. I read all about it in a book.”
He’d shown Patroclus the book, but the dragon-boy had merely glanced at it, turned it over - then tossed it onto his nest with the rest of his hoard.
“You can’t keep eating the cows, Patroclus! Brother Phoinix will be very angry.”
He didn’t know if Patroclus could comprehend.
In the morning, they descended the cliff towards a hidden cove. It was expressly forbidden to go near the water - yet Achilles had broken the rule a long time ago, unable to contain his curiosity. Astride his back, Patroclus was equally fascinated by the ocean - chin digging into Achilles’ shoulder, legs dangling at his side. The salt breeze made his hair whip around his face.
He could practically hear Patroclus’ heart beating faster, like the erratic rhythm of a drum. The seagulls called overhead, flying in loops against the light sky - Patroclus glanced up at them, eyes laced with admiration, and envy.
He refused to get into the water.
“Come on!” Achilles urged, tugging on Patroclus’ hand. “If you can’t hunt, perhaps you can swim! And catch some fish while you’re at it!”
Patroclus eyed the water suspiciously, shaking his head. Seawater lapped at his toes, and he glared down at it like an offending enemy. A particularly large wave rushed towards them, and Patroclus leaped backwards in fright.
He sat on a rock and would not come any closer.
“Useless dragon,” Achilles grumbled that night, snatching back his pillows and clambering into bed, his back to Patroclus.
“How is it you’re the most lethal animal of them all, and afraid of everything under the sun?”
If he doubted Patroclus’ ability to understand human language, the sulking told him otherwise. It was becoming obvious that the dragon could easily pick up on nuances - in the voice, in the movement of the body.
There was a hesitant tug on his blanket. He ignored Patroclus, shut his eyes, and tried to go to sleep.
Another tug.
“Go to sleep,” Achilles growled, and pulled his blanket from the dragon’s clamped mouth.
There was a puff of air, a sign of resignation.
And then quiet.
He was becoming used to the silence, with Patroclus as a companion. Even in dragon form, he was not particularly noisy.
But as the night wore on, his breathing grew heavy and troubled.
Achilles had shifted on his back, staring out the window at the worm moon in its irony. The worm moon, for hadn’t dragons began as worms, ages ago, before the time of memory?
On the floor, there came a long, low sound.
Achilles sprang up from bed, hair rising on the back of his neck.
“Patroclus?”
The sound went on and on, a keening wail to wake the dead.
Achilles slid off the mattress, and padded over to the nest. He was hesitant to approach, knowing dragons were fiercely protective of their hoard - even though Patroclus never seemed to mind when he touched his things, just so long as they weren’t his favorite stones and pebbles.
Achilles placed a hand on Patroclus’ head, trailing round to the wispy ears. They were softer than he had ever imagined, as though cotton met cloud. “Patroclus,” he whispered, in one twitching ear.
“Sorry I yelled at you.”
He didn’t know why he was apologizing, when it must have been something else causing the disquiet. Nightmares, perhaps. Achilles was no stranger to them himself. But he did feel as though he had gone too far.
Where had Patroclus come from?
What had it taken for him to find his way here?
And how - how on earth could he trust a human again, after the monstrous act that had been done to him, the twin scars gleaming pale on his back?
Achilles stroked Patroclus’ head until the keening died down. Then he dragged his blanket off the bed, curled up next to him, and draped it over them. It was probably unnecessary, he thought, feeling the heat flowing through the other. It was like the fire itself lived inside Patroclus, a pleasant sensation, embers glowing over orange coals …
These were his last thoughts as he drifted off.
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Sunrise. Sweet on the eyes, and when he opened them Patroclus was looking back at him, sleepily.
The room was streaked with early color, melting into the boy’s hair and skin, and the eyelashes; one had fallen upon his cheek.
Achilles brushed it away, and shifted closer to Patroclus, a lightness in his chest - knowing the boy had transformed in the night, for some reason or other.
They exchanged glances. His body was sore from sleeping on the hard floor, but somehow content, a mark of good rest.
“Good morning,” Achilles said.
Patroclus blinked at him, the smile slow.
He put his arm around the boy and fell asleep again.
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When Achilles turned twelve, Patroclus attempted to eat Brother Phoinix.
At thirteen, he learned to hunt on his own.
Fourteen came. Fifteen. Each bringing a new milestone.
But the year Achilles celebrated his sixteenth - that was the year of water. The old, washed out in favor of the new - like that of a flood rushing through the plains.
The sea was a grave.
Or at least, that was what Patroclus must have thought, the way he cringed back from the rearing waves, froth pooling all around his feet. Achilles walked ahead. Not a moment later, he felt the other’s arms winding over his shoulders, around his neck.
Patroclus buried his face in Achilles’ back, following him step by step into the blue.
They were plastered together, like two strands of seaweed. A wave crashed into them, making them cough and splutter, mouths filled with saltwater. No matter what, Patroclus would not let go of him.
“Doing alright back there?” Achilles asked, trying to contain his amusement; drifting along the tide, feeling utterly ridiculous - like a paddling duck, unable to stretch out his legs and kick because a dragon was clinging to his back. He glanced over his shoulder and caught Patroclus’ frown; blinking salt out of his eyes and looking forlorn.
“Perhaps you’ll like it better if you transform,” he suggested, seeing a trace of excitement flare up at the words. “Don’t worry. I won’t look.”
Reluctantly, Patroclus unwound himself.
By now, he was larger than a bull. There was so much space to fill out, the transformation taking longer than it had when they were children. But a loud crash rocked the ocean, as though a stone had been dropped from the sky - and the waves parted before Achilles, sending him flying, floating, as a piece of driftwood.
The fish had swum away, sensing a larger presence.
Indeed, Achilles could not help the mixture of fear and excitement crawling over his skin as an enormous dark shape approached from the depths.
Then it broke the surface, a magnificently crested head; the glass of its scales deep turquoise and grey, reflecting its thalassic surroundings.
Achilles felt a laugh escape, wild and carefree - as the dragon swam towards him and dove between his feet. Before he knew it, he was straddling Patroclus’ back.
They sank further and further below the surface, the water growing cool and dark. All the while, he held his breath, pressing his cheek to Patroclus’ head, bubbles streaming past.
Sunlight danced upon the surface. Patroclus swam upwards towards those outstretched beams. They breached, and dove, again and again. The sea spray trailed in their wake.
He was out of breath, laughing, and crying out where all could hear him -
“Are we cowherds or are we kings?!” he roared. Patroclus reared his head back and roared with him, a bellowing sound like the four winds of the world, rushing at him, lifting him, propelling him skyward.
They were lords of the isle. And he had never felt more alive.
🐉🐉🐉
That night, when he drew close to the dragon, he could still smell the salt mist of the ocean. “Do you think we gave him a fright?” he asked, curling himself around the dragon’s warm belly, yellow-white to match the flames in the fireplace. “Nereus, the old man of the sea?”
Patroclus lay on his back, forelegs and back legs stretching upwards. In his talons he held the life jar, filled with milkwood seeds - rattling loudly as he shook them. He’d always loved the sound, and had taken the jar many times to hide it among his hoard.
“I suppose I never told you that one, did I?” Achilles said.
Patroclus glanced at him in reply, leaned forward and nipped him on the shoulder. At his size, and the sharpness of his teeth, one bite could inflict irreversible damage. But if anyone could control his strength, it was Patroclus. Achilles had never known a gentler soul.
Achilles looked down at his shoulder, where the bite mark had scarred over in a perfect crescent. With it brought many memories, but the first one of all …
“Look,” he said, balancing on the top of the shelf. He retrieved his jar and shook it, the twelve seeds inside clinking from side to side. “Brother Phoinix already put in a new one!”
Patroclus was gaping up at him, transfixed.
Achilles climbed down with ease. He shook the jar again and laughed. “I’m not allowed to touch it. Brother Phoinix says it’s bad luck. The life jar is a monk’s most treasured possession. But I’m not a monk so it doesn’t apply to me, don’t you think?” He garbled it all so quickly he was sure Patroclus couldn’t follow him, but it didn’t matter, for the dragon-boy took the jar in his hands, turning it this way and that to catch the light.
It was a beautiful emerald glass, and the seeds inside were round and dark as peppercorns.
“Brother Phoinix was born under the elm tree,” Achilles pointed out, pleased at the way Patroclus’ eyes widened, at the smile forming on his face. He was very fond of pretty, shiny things - and this was the prettiest, shiniest thing Achilles owned.
“So he is very wise, like he was foretold to be. I don’t know what I’ll be, though … sometimes I wish I’d gotten a better tree. But then, it’s where I found you.” He could natter all day, because the truth of the matter was, he’d never had anyone with the patience to listen to him before. He didn’t mind so much that Patroclus could not answer with words, for he answered in other ways.
Patroclus held the life jar like it was the greatest treasure he had found. Then he wrapped it up carefully in his shirt and turned away.
Achilles frowned. “What are you doing? That’s mine.”
Patroclus hunched his back, hugging the jar to himself, shuffling away.
“Will you give it back, please? I’m showing it to you, not giving it to you,” Achilles insisted, annoyed.
It fell on deaf ears, for Patroclus ignored him, clearly intending to take the jar back for his hoard.
“Hey! You’re not listening to me! I can’t give it to you, it’s important!” Achilles cried. He grabbed Patroclus’ arm and unwrapped the jar.
Patroclus’ pupils began to narrow. He bared his teeth.
“Don’t give me that. You can’t just take something that doesn’t belong to you.”
He tried snatching the jar away, but Patroclus was holding on for dear life - and he was really much stronger than Achilles had imagined, even in human form.
“Give it!” Achilles yelled. They tugged the object back and forth, struggling across the room.
Without warning, Patroclus surged forward and clamped his teeth on Achilles’ shoulder.
“Ow! Let go!”
But he was not letting go, his jaw locking, and the teeth were growing into points, piercing the skin. He was transforming.
A scream tore its way from Achilles’ throat. His hands immediately released the jar, which fell to the ground and broke.
The shards ricocheted all over the floor.
The twelve seeds, representing his twelve years - rolled out of sight.
Achilles backed away, horror mounting in his chest at the sight. His shoulder was throbbing, a light stream of blood trickling down his arm. He clutched his shoulder and looked at Patroclus - who had shrunk away, head bowed guiltily.
He couldn’t help it. His eyes were watering. He’d carried Patroclus over the isle for months on end, snuck him in and out of the kitchen, whispered all kinds of secrets to him in the night -
They were friends.
Only they weren’t.
Tears of betrayal sprang forth. He shook his head, covering his face, and ran away.
~~~
He did not see Patroclus for days. What did it matter, anyway? He, Achilles, was going to die. It was what Brother Phoinix had always told him. When the time came, the life jar would break. The seeds would return to the earth, and grow new life. But it had been an accident. Surely the gods, the spirits - the gatekeepers of the netherworld - could understand this?
He didn’t want to die.
He sat on his boulder, scowling at the coastline. Not even the idea of ships could cheer him up.
A rustling in the grass caught his attention.
He glanced over his shoulder and glared.
“Go away.”
Patroclus stood behind him, head still bowed, unable to meet his eyes.
“I said go away!” Achilles snapped, and turned around, ignoring him.
Another sound, quickly fading. He thought Patroclus had left.
But a moment later, a nose bumped against his shoulder and nuzzled it. The bite had healed by now. It hadn’t been severe at all, it had just bled a lot. But it had scarred in a way that would remain for the rest of his life.
He felt himself drooping, giving way.
“Bad dragon,” was all he could manage, before he finally turned to regard Patroclus.
The dragon-boy held out a clump of earth in his hands. It rattled when it moved.
Achilles peered inside. Twelve seeds. And the remains of the glass jar, pieced together and bound with river mud to hold it in place.
~~~
The next year, he found an empty jar.
He poured out half the seeds into this one. “There,” he said. “It does not matter how many years there are. Now we are half of each other.”
And Patroclus had smiled his smile, and taken it in hand, listening to the little seeds rattling.
The milkwood was the tree of belonging. And they belonged together. That was the truth of the matter.
A yawn was suppressed. He looked around the room sleepily, at the way it had changed over the years, barely recognizable. The walls were lined with autumn leaves, the floor littered with fallen branches and twigs. It was like the forest itself had come to inhabit the space, and perhaps it had.
Beside them, the fire crackled in its hearth. He felt Patroclus’ chest rising and falling beneath him, and listened to the pounding of his heart, in which one could hear the eerie quiet of the wood, the rushing of the river, and the rising of the storm. All the sounds that made up their lives, enclosed within that echoing chamber.
He had never been able to answer the question.
Where had Patroclus come from?
Patroclus’ ears flicked as he dreamed. There was a sigh of satisfaction, a rumbling in the chest. Sometime in the middle of the night, he would transform again, the scales evening into smooth skin, the eyes opening, human and dark. Achilles wasn’t sure of the cause. All he knew was a deep contentment, that the dragon had always found safety in his arms.
🐉🐉🐉
It became habit to wait for low tide, spring tide - underneath the waning moon. They trekked down the cliff all the way to the hidden cove and walked along the sands. Patroclus crouched down to examine seashells and corals, forever seeking new additions to his hoard. He raced over to Achilles, grinning, having found an abalone shell that glimmered with the colors of an oil slick.
“Better keep it safe,” Achilles told him, and wrapped it up securely with his shirt and the rest of his clothes. Patroclus would never enter the water in human form, but mid-swim, as they paddled from one side of the cove to the other, enjoying the coolness on their skin - the curve of his draconic silhouette shrank and melted against the starry sky.
“Oof!” Achilles cried, catching him, craning his neck to avoid getting splashed in the face. “Not so afraid anymore, are you?”
Patroclus shook his head, shivering slightly, legs kicking to keep himself afloat.
They swam for a while. As they broke the surface, a soft wind arrived.
At last, they crawled up to the beach, feet sinking into silvery sand. Achilles lowered himself to the ground, content to witness the night growing old. He lay back, absent-mindedly tracing the pink slivers on Patroclus’ back, as he had done time and time again.
It was strange watching the stars disappear. The ocean was like an inkwell around them; when the water was still, it was as though it were littered with diamonds - but when the current strengthened, such a sight was lost to them.
The way Patroclus gazed up at the sky. Such a look of wonder and longing.
“Do you remember it?” Achilles asked. He drew patterns on Patroclus’ back, where the wings had once taken shape.
“If you could take to the sky again, where would you go?” He watched Patroclus’ eyelids lower, mulling over the words.
Tentatively; “Would you ever come back?”
At this, Patroclus turned to face him. A small line between his brows, a sea of thoughts behind his eyes. His lips moved, forming words he could not say. A look of frustration crossed his face, as though pained.
“It’s alright,” Achilles said, sitting up.
Patroclus studied him, the frown disappearing.
Achilles leaned closer, to speak in his ear, as he had done many nights when they lay curled up together by the fire.
“You can tell me anything you want. And I’ll know. I’ll always know.”
There was a pause, as the words sunk in.
Patroclus shifted closer to Achilles and lay his head on his shoulder, nosing at it, nuzzling it.
He bit on the skin lightly, then pressed his lips to that same spot.
Then he moved up to Achilles’ neck, over his jaw. Found his mouth and met him there.
The kiss was soft. Barely grazing his lips, the air cold between them as they parted ways. It was like a first glimpse, a first encounter - bringing him back to that day in the wood, when he had been captured in the eye of the dragon, for good.
Patroclus let out a sigh and lowered his gaze to the ground. Wondering at his reaction.
Heartbeat quickening, Achilles moved forward. He took Patroclus’ chin in hand, lifting it until he would look at him.
Then he closed the gap, and kissed him again.
Patroclus’ lips were warm and full. He responded slowly, tenderly, hands sliding up Achilles’ arms and embracing him.
He tasted of salt and sweet smoke, and even without voice, his words rang loud and clear.
A secret. Shared only between them, on the darkest of nights.
🐉🐉🐉
They would lie quietly in his room, perspiration cooling on the skin when the open window let in the summer breeze.
He would never forget the first night they went to sleep together, Patroclus cradled in his arms; in human form. Hair brushing against his chest, across his shoulders; he stroked the other’s cheek and traced the line of his eyelashes, down his nose, over the oval groove above his lips.
Their legs were tangled together, their sides melded, so he did not know which intake of breath was his, or the other’s.
He pressed a kiss to Patroclus’ forehead.
“Do you know that you are beautiful?” he whispered. “How can you not know? Perhaps you have not learned the word. But to me you are candlelight. Shifting and changing; first you flare bright, and then you die down. At times you are blinding - then you are tender, and welcoming.” He brushed Patroclus’ hair aside and kissed his closed eyelids, his nose - his ear, his neck, all the places he loved best. “Do you know?”
He would give anything for the seasons to change, autumn to winter, winter to spring. For them to go on and on in their silvan paradise, the tree of belonging they had grown together, two boys who were half of each other’s life; two men who were half of each other’s heart.
The year ended with the rain. It was the first rainfall of his lifetime, for the evergreen isle was blessed with the bounty of summer - that was how it had always been.
One day, he found Brother Phoinix in the monastery, twirling his wooden beads. The blind monk was weathered and wizened, the cataracts over his eyes startling white. But his toothless, friendly grin was the same.
“Achilles,” he greeted, holding out a liver-spotted hand. “Come and sit with me.”
And so he sat, and took Brother Phoinix’s hand in his own. “What is it? Are you well?”
Brother Phoinix leaned towards him in conspiracy. “Even without seeing, I can tell you have grown up. Achilles - swiftfoot, ironheart. Just as they said you would be.”
Achilles had not expected to hear this, and ducked his head, trying not to blush. He did not want to admit to the monk that he had spent his adolescence a most incompetent cowherd indeed. He had been given one task - and he had tossed it aside, out of his own youthful brashness.
“Can you taste it?” Brother Phoinix asked, raising his eyes towards the window, where he could surely sense the sunlight.
“What, Brother Phoinix?” Achilles frowned.
“Rainfall,” the blind monk murmured, patting Achilles’ hand. “The first since your arrival on this island.”
“Surely it is good for the pastures,” Achilles replied, though he wasn’t certain.
There was a pause. “When the rain comes, he will go.”
Achilles did not understand, at first. “Who will?”
Then, like the shock of winter, his blood ran cold.
He gripped Brother Phoinix’s fingers hard.
“What do you mean?”
His pulse was beginning to race.
“You do not mean that .”
Brother Phoinix cocked his head to one side. “I have spoken to your dragon.”
“ When?”
“Many times I have spoken to him. And he has told me - that when the rain comes, he will go.”
“It is not true,” Achilles objected. “He would not leave me!”
Brother Phoinix continued twirling his beads. A consoling expression crossed his face. “Achilles, you have helped him find where he belongs.”
“But he belongs with me!”
Silence, filling the monastery.
🐉🐉🐉
He raced towards his room, and threw open the door. The sound of it creaking echoed through the corridor. Leaves rustled and fell from the walls. Branches snapped under his feet.
Patroclus was by the hearth, warming his feet by the fire. He looked up at the sound of footsteps, the smile coming, eyes filled with affection.
“Tell me it’s not true,” Achilles croaked, voice breaking off at the end.
“Tell me -” His face crumpled. He sank to his knees, and cupped Patroclus’ face with his hands. “We belong together. And that’s the truth of it. That’s the truth. ”
Hurried kisses, growing in fervor. He wrapped Patroclus in his arms and held on to him, as though touch could protect him, could anchor him.
He wished, for once, that the dragon could speak. Could reassure him. Could soothe his fears away.
But even entwined together in the warm nest of the dragon’s lair, he ran his hands over that naked skin, fiery beneath his fingertips - and over his back, where the stumps had disappeared, the scars having faded. No trace of what had once been.
Patroclus had come to him, all those years ago.
“That’s why you went there, didn’t you? Hoping it would heal you.”
And he had healed.
Perhaps neither of them knew where Patroclus had come from. But they knew where he would go.
Laughing, wild and carefree.
A lord of the isle, and a lord of the sea.
🐉🐉🐉
The floods came on a morning when the moon was still high in the sky. Even the cowbells were silent, the creatures having retreated to their shed. When he woke up, the gales came whistling through the window, a message he had once released, returned to him again.
Heavy of heart, he surveyed the empty room, and his empty bed. The floor was stone, the kindling in the fireplace wet with condensation.
The sea was not blue, but grey as the face of a storm god. He walked down to the cove, each footstep stinging like a spike had been driven in his heel.
Patroclus awaited him by the shore, the surf enveloping his ankles, the wind tearing through his clothes and hair.
They faced each other, much like they had from the beginning. Taking the other’s measure, in the only way they knew how.
It was not a long goodbye, or a bitter one.
He did not have any charms, any curses - those had gone away with his childhood.
He stepped into Patroclus’ embrace. He wiped the saltwater from his eyes, and kissed the trail that they made.
“You can tell me anything you want,” he said, as the first droplets fell from the sky. “I’ll know. I’ll always know. For your heart moves within mine.”
Patroclus pressed his forehead against Achilles’. For a second he caught a glimmer of the dragon’s eye, and a movement of the lips - Achilles - carefully and lovingly shaped.
Every sound that made up their lives, rendered still; only to return when the moment was over.
He grew up. He grew old. As crows’ feet settled at the corners of his eyes, the monastery gradually emptied out. The monks were sent on missions to faraway lands, and their island - their evergreen island - became the territory of kings and princes alike.
Yet these foreign bodies did not step foot into the glades. The whistling woodlands would bow to no other, for he, Achilles - had been born for this very purpose, to tend to them, to care for them - as he sat upon his mossy throne and watched over the coastline.
Birthdays came and went. He baked the bread and collected the milk with his own hands. New calves were born, some with weak legs, others strong. And every year he plucked the seeds of the milkwood tree and added one to his jar.
It was filling to the brim.
One day the jar fell, and broke into pieces.
The seeds tumbled over the shelves, cascading to the floor in a cacophony of sound.
To the earth he would return, as it had been for generations alike.
He spent his remaining days wandering the halls he had called home. Cataracts had grown over his eyes, and his vision was dulled, one hand on the wall to steady him as he took step by shaky step.
“Am I a cowherd or a king?” he asked himself, and laughed, raspily, as Brother Phoinix had done in his later years.
The rooms blended one after another.
He wondered if there was a charm to ease his way into the arms of death. But he did not need one.
Over the pastures he walked, bare feet trampling new grass and dandelions grown yellow.
The cowbells rang, signaling high noon.
The last of his strength ebbed, as the sea turned to low tide.
His feet began to meet the white sands of the cove, broken seashells and corals gathering between his toes.
“You can tell me anything you want,” he had once said.
And even without a voice, the words had come.
As the clouds gathered, and the prelude to rainfall began; the dragon emerged from the waters, an enormous shape breaking the surface.
Somewhere over the gales, his words had carried. Perhaps one day, whoever had left him here would come to claim him.
The sea parted, the ocean floor laid bare. Shiny pebbles lined the pathway into the deep.
The old man, hunched over and withered - stood tall once again, to be captured in the great eye that had found him so long ago.
The tide came.
A laugh escaped, wild and carefree.
It was laughter that would be known again through the ages.
The cowherd was carried away on the shoulders of the king. And they vanished into the brine.