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When I returned from Agamemnon’s camp, Achilles was standing within the entrance of our tent, arms folded loosely at his waist. His face was faintly lined with sleep, yet alert, like he had been awake for some time. I frowned on instinct. The hour was late, not yet early. Something was wrong.
He turned to me as I stepped through the tent flap. His expression was wary, and it was only then when I smelled the sea on him. Thetis.
“Is she well?” I asked, out of instinct more than anything. Why did she call you? I wanted to ask instead.
Achilles answered both questions, looking uneasy. For once, something that was ill-fitted on him. His throat bobbed with an uncertain swallow. “She is,” he said, “though she was acting... strange. She told me to remember what I had come here to do.” His beautiful features pulled into a frown. “She… reminded me of the prophecy.”
Bitterness sat on the back of my tongue. I had not thought that his mother would want to remind her son of his foretold death so much. What good was such a reminder? We reminded ourselves enough. “Did she think we forgot?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “Though, I suppose I sort of had. We never figured out who was the best of Myrmidons, did we?”
A cold shock shot down my spine. Briseis’ words, like a blessing. Like a damnation. Best of men. Best of the Myrmidons.
Silently, I strode past him, sitting on a chair we used to polish our armour and weapons. Achilles lingered, turning to face me, confused. “What is it?” He asked. “Has something happened?”
“No,” I said. “Yes. I don’t know.”
“That is not very illuminating,” he remarked, setting his hands on his waist. He almost looked comical, staring down at me with narrowed eyes, arms akimbo. I wanted to smile, but Briseis’ words breathed at the back of my neck, rattling and cold, like the coming of autumn. My lips did not twitch.
“I know,” I said, rubbing at my knuckles. “It is probably nothing.” Please.
Achilles brow furrowed. “It does not look like nothing.” He gestured at my hunched form. I remained silent in my sudden turmoil. He made a sound of frustration. “Patroclus.” Pa-tro-clus. “Tell me.”
I hesitated. This, I could tell, alarmed him. I rarely hesitated with him, free and honest as I was with my thoughts whenever I was around him. He let his arms fall to his sides, suddenly serious, concerned. I swallowed.
“It…” I trailed off. “I… I went to visit her,” I said. “Briseis.”
Achilles brow furrowed. There was jealousy in his eyes, but it was greatly eclipsed by shame. The sting of his betrayal was still fresh enough to humble him, at least when it came to me. “Is she well?” He asked, awkward.
“Well enough,” I said. “By Agamemnon’s standards.”
“Not well at all, then,” he said, bitter again. “I would kill him.”
I stayed silent, knowing that I had robbed his chance to do so. A chance I would not have ever given back, if it meant Briseis’ safety. His plan would have sacrificed a friend for the sake of the wounded pride of a king and a prince. Agamemnon would have died by his sword if Briseis had been dishonoured, but how could I let him become a man who would give away someone’s dignity and life without a second thought?
He withstood the silence for a beat, before clearing his throat. “And what did she say?”
This. This was what would undo him. “That Agamemnon will not yield,” I said. “That she will do what she must when the Trojans invade. That…” I closed my eyes. “That I am the best of the Myrmidons.”
All at once, the air froze. Frigid, with his realisation. Words from an Alastonian girl, with no divine alignments, no Delphic foresight. But words nonetheless, and the Fates dealt heavily with those. I felt my entire being sag.
I was to die. Before Achilles. I would not remain in a world where he was gone. But I would also be ripped from him, on someone else’s terms. Blessings. Damnations. All from these small, kind words. But I knew better than to challenge the Fates, not when their aim was so direct, so true. The best of the Myrmidons will die. The best of the Greeks will remain. How could I fight that? How could anyone?
“No.”
I felt my gut curdle. Of course. “Do not make this any harder than it has to be.”
“No. You cannot leave me,” he said sharply. Too sharply, like a hastily drawn cut, shallow and inconsequential. “You will not leave my side.”
“Those are two different things,” I said. “I can give you neither.”
“I don’t care,” he declared. He crossed the room in two quick strides, falling to his knees as his hands reached out to seize my wrists, to bring them to his lips. I let him. “Do you know what they call me, on the battlefield?”
I couldn’t see where he was going with this. “Of course,” I answered anyway. “ Aristos Achaion. Best of the Greeks.”
“Selfish,” he said instead, pressing the word to my pulse. “Tyrannical. Thoughtless and greedy.” His breaths were soft, fluttering across my skin; the only clue that he was not as strong as he was trying to be. Still, his lips lingered on me, leaving silent, invisible trails. Marking, as if that would sway the gods from their decision. Mine, I imagined him thinking. As I am yours.
“Why?” I asked, watching him set me aflame. His answering chuckle was deep, drawn from the recesses of his chest, ringing with bitter irony.
“They think I hoard the blood to myself,” he said. “That I refuse to let anyone share the glory of a battle won.”
The thoughts of children more so than men. War was ugly, and bitter, and inevitable. A battle did not care about the men who spilled its blood. It was won, and that was it. But for our people, it mattered more than life. More than death. Still, “That’s stupid,” I frowned, “you fought with them, as peers. The blood you spilled was theirs as well.”
“No one but you sees it that way,” he smiled, pressing his nose to my palm, gleaming green eyes cast upwards to me. “You and your brilliant, melipterōtos mind.” Honey-winged.
My smile came unbidden, despite the heavy shroud of doom on our shoulders. He had this effect on me, this ability to tease out whatever threads of joy I had left, meagre as they were. “No one but you sees it that way,” I parroted back.
His clever smile. “They also call me clear-eyed.”
I laughed, but it died as soon as it was born, as I remembered why he was lowering himself to my feet, this prince of a kingdom and hero of legend. “Why are we talking about what your soldiers call you?” I asked, my voice mirroring his expression: losing lustre, all at once. His jaw tightened, and he pressed closer, curling my hands into loose fists and leaning his forehead into them. I could feel his eyelashes fluttering against the knuckles of my fingers, like the touch of a butterfly, or a wisp of smoke.
“Because they are right,” he breathed. His thumbs pressed tighter against my pulse. Not painful, never painful, but they hurt me regardless. “I am selfish, and tyrannical, and thoughtless and greedy. I would take a kingdom if it would make you smile. I would steal light from the sun to illuminate your way. I would fight everyone, the whole world, if it would keep you with me. You… you are everything and anything on this earth; without you, it cannot breathe. I cannot breathe. So, you see,” his grip slid down and up, travelling up my arms to grip at my biceps, to cup at my cheeks. My hands fell to my lap, revealing his eyes, earnest and lustrous. They were sunspots made mortal, brighter than anything I had ever seen, shining with unshed tears. When he spoke next, it was soft, and helpless. “I cannot let you go.”
My heart broke. “You have no choice,” I said.
“I will make one anyway,” he persisted, with all the conviction of a child: unfounded, unreasonable, and true.
“You will die.”
“Not while you breathe. And I will make certain you do.”
I exhaled, brokenly. He was hard to shake when he was like this. “If you do this,” I warned, “you declare war on the gods.”
His eyes sharpened then, his divinity rising to the challenge. Let them try, his blood whispered. Let them draw a blade against their own. Let us all bear witness to the horror they provoke.
I set my jaw. “They are still gods.”
He smiled, assured by my lack of refusal. “Yes,” he promised me, rising to press his nose to mine. His eyes fluttered shut, and we exhaled as one. “They are just gods.”
He was so certain. So confident. It was hard to see anything but what he believed. I could see it now: him, exalted and beautiful, standing radiant before the sun, rivalling it in brilliance. The gods, bearing down on him in their breathtaking, mind bending forms, ever shifting and seething, incandescent at his slight against their honour. He would grin in the face of their anger, hefting his ash-wood spear, pointing it to their faces. He would laugh. He would speak. You have no power over me. I am not yours to break.
I gripped at his hair, memorising the feel of the lustrous strands cutting into my fingers. He huffed, affectionate, knowing the steps of our dances by heart. But I did not lead him. Because I could also see beyond, past his belief, past his hubris: the answer to his declaration, the breaking of every delicate bone. The fall of everything good and bright in this world. He was divine, yes, but he was still born from mortal blood. He would never survive.
My hands guided his face away from mine, and I watched as he blinked to life, flushed and amused. I did not try to smile, as he would know my falsehoods blind, but I let my fondness shine through. This beautiful boy. My life, my everything.
He would raze the earth if I fell, I knew. But he did not account for what I would do if he left me behind. And if it was a choice between me, and him...
I knew I was not as confident as him. I could not forge my own destiny through sheer force of will. But I could choose. And though there was never truly a choice, I did.
His smile was like the sun when it bloomed across his lips. “What?” He asked, simple and whole, buoyed by his decision. I traced the lines of his jaw, the bones of his cheek, the corner of his eyes.
“Nothing,” I said. My thumb swiped across his lips. “I love you.”
He laughed, chasing my touch. “And I, you,” he said, pressing ghosts of kisses to my fingers, my palms, my forearms, and beyond. When he reached my shoulder, his voice was one of mischief, and promise. “Would you like me to prove it?”
I smiled then. “You spoke plenty of proof.”
“I would speak more,” he said, rising like the tide, hands smoothing up my lap. “I would do anything.”
The leather of my seat pulled at my skin as I slid a little ways down, letting him bear down over me. Fire from the tall lamps we used to warm the tent sat on his shoulders, shining his hair. I watched the golden embers of his eyes spark aflame. “Anything,” I repeated — not a question. Never a question, not when it came to him. His smile turned sly.
“For you,” he said, “there is no limit.”
When our lips touched, I had to fight to hold back tears. Because as I was his, he was mine, and I would know his every lie blind.
Let me die, I thought, desperate as our touches, and let it not taint you. Let my memory be enough. Let our love be enough.
His heart beat in tandem with mine, beating out the answer I already knew. Mine. Mine. Mine. Forever, and beyond.
My tears slipped free, and I hid them in his hair, drawing his breaths to my neck. Yours, my heart promised back. Yours. Yours. I touched my temple to his.
Forgive me, when I am gone.
☉
When dawn broke the next day, Achilles would rise, and he would find the space beside him empty. He would remember our talk, remember the prophecy, and then he would tear through the Phthian camp, demanding my whereabouts from every soldier and woman present. When that does not work, he would rise to the crest of the hill our camp stood on, and watch the Grecian camp burst from the unending rush of Trojans, come to burn our ships to kindling. He would forget to check our tent for his armour. He would forget to look for his spears.
He would see the gleaming phoenix bronze of his breastplate glittering in the sun, repelling all who approached it. He would seize up, and chill to the bone. He would scream my name.
I would be in the thick of it, wielding Achilles’ spears and sword, my aim true from the hours spent in the physician’s tent. I would fight braver and better than I ever had before. I would, for a moment, borrow Aristos Achaion’s invulnerability, and forget that the Fates had frowned on me so.
And in my final moments, I would hear the beats of his beautiful soles, swift and sure, as his golden limbs crushed through the thick of the battle, overturning chariots and spearing men with the simplest sticks in his ardent rush to reach me. I would smile, and forget that his presence means that the armour was nothing but proof of a trick, and I would turn to him, my eyes catching green and gold, heart heavy and full and beating, beating, beating for him—
And I would fall, spear thrust through the crush of my ribs, the end slicked with blood and caught by a trembling, golden hand. I would lift my bleary gaze to catch his grief stricken face, his fine features paling, as white as bone. As white as my bone. I would know his thoughts. Mine. Forever. Too late. Please.
“Achilles,” I would breathe.
Forgive. Forgive.
“Patroclus,” he would choke.
And it would be the last thing I would ever hear.