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Patroclus was supposed to live.
He was to go back home, to Phthia, carrying the armor from my dead body that was buried back at Troy. He was supposed to come out of this, scarred and grieving, but out. He was to only shed tears at my wake and then leave me forevermore. He, along with my glory, were to be the only good, unsullied things to come from that wretched war.
He was supposed to marry Briseis, a beautiful girl. Someone who was as kind as he. Someone who had long, dark curls with a smile red and plump like figs. Someone whose hands were soft, and her face graceful. He was supposed to have two children, a boy and a girl. Perhaps he would have named the boy after me, if it didn’t cause him too much grief, in that case, he would name the boy after Chiron or Phoenix. Or Briseis would name their boy after her father, and Patroclus would name their girl. He would name her something that flowed prettily off the tongue. She’d giggle in his arms when he’d hoist her up high upon his shoulders. Perched there, like royalty, she’d command his every direction. He would laugh, curving his steps just to hear his little girl giggle once more.
Their children would have curly hair too. Deeply brown, much like their father’s. Patroclus might teach his son how to fight, how to jab with a spear and block with a shield. When Patroclus goes to demonstrate, he will step too far forward with his dominant foot. He always does. His son will not notice the mistake, not having seen any better. Patroclus won’t use a spear from the war, he wouldn’t have taken any of those spoils back home with him. He was supposed to leave all of that violence, all of that bloodshed, with me. I would take that to the grave for the both of us, so that his hands may be clean when he goes to wash them. So he will not ever see them red.
He will remember me, in the more recent years. He may not even marry Briseis right away, if just out of grief. He will see pieces of me in Phthia; the vibrant green of the hills in spring, the lyres that are sold in the streets, the jingle of gold jewelry at the market and the crashing of waves at shore. He will remember me, and they all will remember me, until there is nothing left but memory. Though Patroclus won’t like the stories they spin. He will scoff at the poets who twist my tale to their own amusement. He will know, solely he, how wrong they all were. He will hear them speak of the cruelty of my rage and he will know of the gentleness of my lips. But with time, even that will begin to fade. He hears my story spun at a bar one day and he can not recall exactly if parts of it were true or not. The drunken bard says that I was left-handed. Patroclus argues, his ears brimming red like they always do when he is angered, and insists that I could always fight with both. The bard yells back. Patroclus leaves, but now he is questioning whether or not he was right. Was I left handed? He can’t remember. He hasn’t seen me fight since the war, and the last he saw of me then was a corpse. He will shake it off, equating it to the combination of his alcoholic beverage and his long, dragged on day. Until he comes back home to his wife and understands that it does not matter whether he remembers or not.
I am gone. I am to him what I am to everyone else.
A hero. A lesson. Something they can spin of divinity and fate. Patroclus will never forget me. No one ever will, that I have made sure of. But he will forget the way my smile curled with the corner of my eyes. He will forget the way my voice sounded when it called for him. When he hears my name spoken throughout my kingdom he will know that he knew of me, but no face will come to his mind.
He will marry Briseis eventually. When he can finally lose the memory of my features. He will realize just how much he misses the warmth of her in his bed after they share stolen nights together. He will realize how much he loves to curl his fingers into her hair and listen to her sing hymns when she thinks he is asleep. He will realize just how much more he loves to lay upon her, how much better she takes him. He will realize how this is all he ever wanted. Now that I am gone. Now that I do not hold him from it.
When their first child, their daughter, is born they will smile upon her proudly. Patroclus would rock her gently and Briseis would smile into his chest. When she grows old enough to stutter, Patroclus will tell her stories. Extravagant rhymes of his time on Pelion and his training with Chiron. His daughter would gasp, her mothers eyes twinkling. She would beg for more stories and Patroclus would get a saddened, foregone look in his eyes as he recalls for her the story of Aristos Achaion.
Briseis will call them in for dinner. At the table, lit by candles with wafts from incense, she will tell him that she is pregnant again. Patroclus’ brows will raise in shock, but a deep happiness will find a way to his expression shortly after. He will close his eyes when he smiles widely, and he will pick up his wife to twirl her around by the waist. Their daughter will cheer at the knees, and they will hug her close.
“I love you.” Patroclus will whisper into her neck. Like he used to do with me.
“I love you too.” Briseis will whisper back, his hand resting upon her full stomach.
It is selfish of me, but I know that the next day when he makes way through Phthia he will be taken aback, frozen in his place as remembrance shivers through him. In the center of the kingdom, the one my father still rules because his only heir lays in the layers of the earth, feasted upon by worms, there will be a carved statue of me. Patroclus will feel guilt first, then shame, then longing. He will remember everything of us, and he will not bare to look at the sculpture. He will be the only one to notice how they did not get my features right, how no artists quite ever could. I know that he will, for a fleeting moment, wish that he could have had me again.
My father will invite him to dinner that night at the palace, smiling with wrinkles when he sees Patroclus’ children walking beside him. Briseis has gone to visit a friend, one of the other girls that had been taken captive by Agamemnon during his time as general. Peleus will ask how old they are and Patroclus will respond with “5 and 2” Peleus will make a remark saying that he hasn’t not seen Patroclus in years, and Patroclus will say that he didn’t want to cause an old king any more grief. Peleus will laugh at the joke at his age, and Patroclus might have smiled if being at the table did not make him think of me. How we used to laugh besides each other as we cracked jokes about the men my father ate with. “That one’s wife must have been born with a lacking sight.” or “That one’s face must only make his own mother smile.” And oh how terrible we were, he will think. How childish of us children.
The night will go on, and the two will trade jokes and stories. Patroclus will mention how much his daughter adores the palace, and Peleus will insist that they stay. All of them: Patroclus, Briseis, and the two kids. Patroclus will feel that he is imposing, that Peleus suggests too much for a commoner like him.
Peleus will say, “Nonsense, you lived here before, this has always been your home.” And it would all be true.
Maybe Patroclus would walk past my room, his mothers lyre still lying in the corner of it. When he picks it up to strum the lyre will make a loud whine. He will cringe, just slightly, but take it back with him regardless. It had always been his. It was just for me to play for him.
Patroclus’s son would sit at the foot of his bed, in his old room, amazed with the instrument and plucking at the strings randomly. Briseis will be sleeping under the covers, tired from a day's worth of traveling. Patroclus will run his hand through her hair, twirling a curl around his finger as he watches his son play with his lyre. Their daughter will join them shortly, awoken by the awful chorus of notes her little brother plays. Patroclus will shush them both to sleep, back to their rooms, until he blows out the candle and rests against Briseis
In the morning he will catch my father in tears. He will overhear how Peleus weeps to Phoeneix about how he wished I had returned home to him too. Patroclus will feel bad once more, like he did when he saw my incorrect gaze in the kingdom square, and make his way to the kitchens like he wishes to not be seen. My father will catch him anyways, quickly feasting on figs like it is wrong of him to be eating.
“Good morning.” My father would say, because he has always been courteous.
“Good morning.” Patroclus would respond without looking at him. The two would eat in silence for a handful of seconds, categorized by early birds chirping outside and rays of sun seeping in through the windows.
“I had it made because I thought it would make it easier.” Peleus would say gently. Patroclus would glance up from his breakfast with a quizzical pout of his lips.
“Had what made?” Patroclus would ask.
“The sculpture.” Peleus would respond, almost too casually in Patroclus’ opinion. When the words leave his mouth Patroclus will inhale sharply. Despite this, Peleus will continue speaking. The birds will still sing outside.
“They all know of him. Everyone does now I suppose. Everyone in Phthia loves him, even more so in death than they did when he lived here.” There is a sad grit to Peleus' voice that does not match the upward curve of his mouth when he speaks. He must miss his son dearly, Patroclus will think. Then Patroclus will remember who his son was and he will stop thinking.
“I wanted it here as a reminder. That he was just as great as they had said he would be. I had thought-” Peleus pauses, catching Patroclus’s gaze for the first time that morning. He does not comment on the tears that make their way down Patroclus’ face. “-I had thought that maybe you would have liked it too.” My father finishes, taking a sip from a goblet with a liquid only red enough to be wine.
Patroclus does not say anything. He thanks my father for the meal and the hospitality and says that he hopes the horse trainer will be back at the stables today, he promised his daughter he’d teach her how to ride. Peleus will dismiss him kindly. And they will not speak about me again.
“Papa, why are you crying?” His daughter will ask him. They have gone out for riding, and they have made quite the coverage of the kingdom as they now trot along the grassy hills just above the beach. Patroclus will shake his head, not expecting the question and wrestling with his answer.
“I am not crying.” He lies to her. Her little brows furrow much like his tend to do. She points short umber brown fingers at him.
“Yes you are! What’s wrong, papa?” She insists, twisting her torso enough to study her father’s expression. Patroclus will sigh, from behind her. He will rest two hands upon her small shoulders, taking the reins and leading the horse to the ocean’s shore.
“I was thinking about someone. Someone I knew years ago.” It is not a lie, but it is not the whole truth. I used to hate when Patroclus would do that. His daughter seems to feel the same way.
“Of who?” She asks him, practically demands it from him. Patroclus laughs at her tone, pointing to the white crest of the waves as they near the sand. She smiles brightly, she must love the beach as much as I did.
“Someone.”
“Papa.”
“Alright, alright.” Patroclus chuckles. They both get off of the horse, Patroclus first so that he can lift his daughter up and hoist her upon his shoulders once more. I wonder if he feels the water hit his feet. If he is too afraid of facing my mother to let it.
“I am thinking of the son of Peleus. You remember the king don’t you?” Patroclus asks her. She purses her lips together, thinking long and hard.
“The one with all the wrinkles?”
“That’s the one.”
“What about his son? Can we meet him?” She asks excitedly, foregoing the chance to allow Patroclus to elaborate and jumping straight to what it is she wants.
“No we can not, sweetie.” Patroclus’ voice hitches but he can’t tell.
“Why not?” She is so young. She is so sweet and unknowing. Patroclus does not want to tell her.
“He is not here anymore.” It is not a lie, it is not the truth. She pouts, annoyed at this answer.
“Then tell him to come back. Then you won’t have to cry.” She says in that voice that all kids use when they think a problem must be that simple. I know I used that voice many times on my father, I know he always let me.
“He cannot.” Patroclus mutters in response. He lets her rush into the waters, reminding her to only go up to where the water hits her knees. His daughter laughs at the sea as it tickles her. He clenches a fist in the sand. When she finally comes back from the water, her hair is wet with sand and her cheeks are slightly pink. She has three seashells in her hand and she declares how she’s going to give one to each of her friends. Patroclus doesn't expect her to bring me up again.
“If he is the king's son, why was he not at the palace?” She asks him cleverly. Patroclus plays with the seashells between his fingers as he answers. His beard lightly dusted with sand from the ocean breeze.
“He does not live there anymore.” I do not live at all, Patroclus. You’re lying to her again. She is your daughter, she is worried for you.
“Where does he live now?”
“Why are you so curious about this man, sweetheart?”
She pouts once more, twinkling eyes gazing upon the horizon beyond the sea. Patroclus nudges her gently, but her little knees have come up to her little chest and she looks every bit a part of him as she sounds.
“I don’t want you to be sad.” She mumbles. Patroclus’ heart tugs and he pulls her into his chest in a gentle hug.
“I’m not sad anymore. Not with you.” He reassures her. They come back to the palace that night covered in sand and smelling of salt water.
The next morning, when Patroclus lets his arms stretch high, placing a kiss to the crown of Briseis’ head, he meets his daughter sitting at the dining table. A stack of the finest foods in front of her, likely by Peleus. Patroclus grins, snagging a pear from a bowl of fruit as he sits across from her.
“What is all this?” He asks and she grins back at him.
“I told the king I was hungry, and he said I could have any of this that I want.” She explains proudly. Patroclus nods his head, he knows just how much Peleus loved spoiling children. It turns out it never applied solely to his own.
“Oh also Papa! I asked him about his son, Achilles. And he told me all of these great stories! Why didn’t you tell me he was the one that went to the war with you!” She exclaims, leaning over the table in what can only be considered as an unroyale manner.
Patroclus goes still, tense. He hadn't expected her to ask Peleus. He hasn’t heard my name spoken from her mouth yet. It feels unnatural in a way.
“You never asked.” He settles on saying. She is not pleased with this answer, pensively chewing her food.
“What was he like, Papa?” She asks, purely out of curiosity now.
“Achilles?”
“Mhm.”
And Patroclus will tell her. He will answer everything she asks because she is his daughter, his future. She is the child born from him and the love of his life and he will not stray away from sharing with her his past. Even if he hadn’t wanted to yet, even if he believed he could keep it buried with me. He will talk about how he used to watch me train, before he began to train alongside me. His tales of Pelion will suddenly have a new character introduced, the boy with the unruly blonde hair that juggled figs just to make him smile. He will not speak of the war that took a part of him and never gave it back, not yet, for she is too young. But he will recall how Peleus used to tell us tales just like this, like the ones he tells to her now. He was supposed to live, so he could tell her.
I loved you. Patroclus would think when he finally speaks my name again for the first time in ten years.
I love you. I would have said to him from Elysium. Patroclus would not respond as he is not dead, he can not hear me.
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The palace gives me a lot of room to think. Perhaps too much, sometimes. Maybe it would be better for my own sake if I didn’t think about these things. But when I am not training the prince I have an abundance of silence to let my mind work to fill. I have been having a lot of thoughts lately, Patroclus encompassing the majority of them all. Thoughts of him. Of the war. Of Phthia, and the sea. It does not matter, after all. None of it does. None of it ever can, anymore. We’re both here, now. Even though he never should have been.
We’re both here. And he still can’t hear me.