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Since his reunion with Achilles, Patroclus had begun looking forward to the future, rather than continue to mourn the past. After all, they had all of eternity to be together; though some days were harder than others, marred with burning regret and stinging grief. Visions of war made up most of his memories, times of strife and anxiety that boiled beneath the surface. The crushing weight of prophecy hanging above them. They had their happier moments of course, but echoes of dread still lurked like a lion stalking its prey, barely out of sight.
As Patroclus had come to learn, the past is never far behind within the Underworld. An unwanted, long-winded and mentally exhausting conversation with Odysseus had proven that point quite thoroughly. There were plenty of other faces that Patroclus did not desire to see again, but those mainly consisted of prideful kings and less-than-grateful soldiers who fell by his spear. Yet more memories from Troy.
It never occurred to him to think beyond the days of Phthia; it was his home, where his life truly began. Patroclus was nothing more than a shade wandering the world before that bright young boy introduced himself with all the haughty nonchalance of a spoiled prince.
Anything before Phthia was a blur, or perhaps too painful to recall.
Patroclus rested an arm on his knee as he sat in his usual spot, waiting for either one of his princes to return and keep him company. Having not seen Zagreus in a while, he silently hoped that Achilles’ fiery ward would come trotting through the door with his usual bright smile.
Almost on queue, the heavy slam of the chamber door disturbed his serenity. Perking his head up, Patroclus did not recognise the footsteps, nor did he hear the usual breaking of pots. He stood up, awaiting the new stranger that stumbled upon his glade.
Oh, how he wished it was a stranger.
If Patroclus did not want to confront his past, his past would confront him. Those same dark, shadowed eyes leered at him and suddenly he was a child again.
A shiver ran down his spine.
The once muscular, sinewy body had withered away in old age, gnarled like an oak tree. He stood slightly taller than Patroclus, and much to his chagrin the years had been kind to the man who gave him his unseen scars. Grey had overtaken the ebony hair that Patroclus once thought—when he seemed very small and his father very large—framed his face like a storm cloud, emphasising every disapproving scowl. That same scowl was present now, the one that still haunted him in his moments of self-doubt. It shifted as he opened his mouth to speak, cracking like ice on a frozen lake.
“Patroclus,” He sneered, twisting his name together like it was a curse. Patroclus braced himself, fighting the urge to shrink away as he had done countless times before. “Here I was thinking I would finally be rid of you.” His biting voice reverberated throughout the quiet glade, shaking the ground beneath them. “Tsch, clearly you’ve made something of yourself to end up here. Although how you managed it I will never know, you hardly deserve to be amongst the bravest of men.”
“Father.” It was all Patroclus’ heavy tongue could muster. Menoetius was still bitter and callous after all these years, it seemed. Though a small, treacherous part of Patroclus had to agree with his words. He was never meant to be in Elysium’s paradise, instead relegated to the fields of Asphodel. Put out to pasture with the rest of the mediocre and forgotten. It was only through Achilles’ foolish self-sacrifice for love—or perhaps pity—that he stands here now.
No. No more of that. Menoetius’ cruelty had eaten away at him in life, a parasite he could not be rid of. But Patroclus was no longer that timid boy who would hold back tears while tracing another new bruise. He had grown into a man, one that had faced men far greater than the one stood before him now. He had spent so long trying to rectify the pain his father etched into him, to fill the gaps his abuse left, and Patroclus would be damned if he let that sorry excuse for a man tear apart the peace he had finally allowed himself to have.
Patroclus took a deep breath, gathering all the strength he could summon. “I too find it interesting that you are here, considering this is reserved for the greatest of men. I suppose the standard for greatness is rather low.”
He could not help but feel a grim satisfaction when he saw Menoetius' expression. The glower melted away into confusion, not expecting such a retort. Time had not changed his father, who stood harsh and jagged like a cliff face. Patroclus however, had always adapted with the changing of tides.
Menoetius straightened up. He glared down at his son, like a mountain towering over a village. “Still insolent as ever, boy. I will never understand why I bothered to try with you.”
Enough was enough. He did not have to stand here and relive the hell he was put through as a child. Patroclus was dead, and had nothing to lose.
Daring to take a few steps forward, Patroclus crossed his arms—cocking his hip to feign indifference.
“Are you finished? Because I have a few choice words I would like to share with you, father. If you are even worth my time.” Patroclus did not wait for a response. “One thing that I will never understand is how berating a child, your own child, could ever give you the respect you so desperately wanted. What was the purpose? What good did it serve to try and turn me into the same wretched beast you are? To strengthen me? You know as well as I that a whip does not make a hunting dog.”
A wave of heat rushed through Patroclus, adrenaline making him tremble from the crown of his head down to the soles of his feet. He blinked away the tears that threatened to spill, blurring his vision.
He continued his onslaught, raging like a tidal storm. “And what is more pathetic is that after all this time, you return to me only to act in the same loathsome way. Expecting me to roll over and take it. How foolish can you be? The truth is, father—should you even be worthy of such a title—is that you are weak. You always have been and forever will be. You lived in so much fear that I would surpass you, something any decent father would be grateful for, that you decided to beat me into the ground until I was nothing more than the dust under your shoe. So blinded by your fragile pride that you failed to understand one simple thing. The moment you laid a hand on me, or spat your venomous words, you had already debased yourself and joined the ranks of the lowliest creatures.”
Menoetius stood dumbfounded, face contorting into a snarl. His wrinkled hands balled into fists as he glared daggers at Patroclus, who glared them back in turn. Any ounce of fear Patroclus felt was replaced with years of pent up wrath.
His father’s expression shifted, tearing his gaze away first. Burying whatever effect Patroclus’ words had on him. He stepped back and scoffed, it felt like a slap. “Is this your idea of revenge, boy? A few clever words to do the trick? Unlike you I can take an insult without fleeing to my mother’s side. You are wasting our time—” Menoetius lifted his head, looking down his nose at Patroclus.
“No, father, this is not my idea of revenge.” Patroclus’ voice was gravelly, low as a distant thunder. “Do you want to know my form of vengeance?” Hatred burned on his tongue, pouring out of every sentence in droves. He stood tall, jutting out his chin. Arms at his side as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “It is that truly, with every ounce of my being, I genuinely cannot bring myself to care. About you, about your relentless words or actions, any of it.”
His breath started to quicken, words pouring out faster and faster, leaving his mouth before he could even think of them. A waterfall of desperate anguish surged forth, careening down and enveloping the space between them.
“I have built myself a life I am proud of. One where I was happy. One where you spent sleepless nights praying for my misery as I was exploring the world; finding joy when I thought there was none while living under your roof. As you rotted away in a palace full of nothing but the disdain of others; I had found love, purpose. Despite your best efforts I am satisfied with everything that I am, everything that I have achieved. I no longer waste any of my precious time thinking about you. After all, what use does an eagle have for mud? I would sooner care about a speck of dust than what you think of me. You are nothing to me, father.”
Although Patroclus was standing firm, his head was spinning and his ears felt like they were filled with cotton. He did not budge— pinning his father in place with a deadly glare, frigid as the depths of the sea and utterly unblinking. A flicker of blond flashed in the corner of his eye but his mind ran at lightning speed, unable to fully comprehend it.
Menoetius seethed, a low growl in his voice not unlike Patroclus. “I do not claim you as my son.”
“Good.” Patroclus smirked. “I have long since disavowed you as my kin.”
Quaking with fury like the bowels of the earth, Menoetius opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it with a shake of his head. Instead he spat at Patroclus’ feet, glowering down at him one more time before pushing past him towards the exit.
“Nothing more to say? Well, you are a man of few talents. Language and intelligence are no exception.” Patroclus called out over the sound of the door shutting.
Finally, his body gave out under him. Knees buckling under the weight of relief, limbs falling limp like a ragdoll. Strong, familiar arms were there to catch him. Looking up he was met with Achilles’ face, flushed red with anger and confusion; although his sea green eyes were soft when they met Patroclus’ own. Achilles pulled him closer as they lowered to the ground, allowing him to nuzzle into the soft fabric of his chlamys. Patroclus was enveloped in warmth, huddling like a dog by a hearth. Soothing his aching soul.
“By the gods, Pat, are you alright?” He murmured, trying to ease the edge off his voice.
“When… When did you arrive?” Patroclus whispered, every muscle in his body relaxing into his beloved’s touch.
“I do not know how long that went on, but about halfway in, I think.” Achilles tangled his fingers in Patroclus’ curls, massaging his scalp. The other man purred in his lap.
“It was nothing, really. I only had to get a few things off my chest.” He wrapped his arms tighter around Achilles’ torso.
The blond laughed, light and sweet like a fig. “I can see that. Though, are you sure you’re alright? Do you need anything?”
Patroclus shook his head. “I have you, I need nothing else.”
Pressing his lips into his hair, Achilles breathed in Patroclus’ warm, earthy scent. He rubbed comforting circles into his back, both of them enjoying the blessed silence after a storm. The trickling of the Lethe was all that accompanied Patroclus’ easing breaths, washing away the rest of his troubles. Slipping in and out of consciousness, Patroclus brought himself back to the waking world with a contemplative hum.
“I am rather impressed, Achilles,” he started, a smile evident in his voice. “That you did not decide to immediately run my father through with your spear upon first sight of him.”
Achilles’ face became serious, his smile falling into a straight line. “I did consider it for a moment, but you must know I am not that man anymore. You handled yourself quite well, and I trusted that you had everything under control, but if he had laid a hand upon you I swear—”
“Peace, my love. I believe he will not be returning anytime soon.”
“It is not too late for me to hunt him down.” Achilles said, only half-joking.
Patroclus chuckled. “No, no, this is a battle that I must fight alone, I think.”
There was a certain distance in his voice, like he was lost at sea. Achilles noticed immediately and held him tighter.
“I disagree. Partially, at least. It is your battle, yes, but that does not mean that you do not need allies. I am always here for you, Pat. If you ever need anything, anything at all, I will be by your side. I swear it.”
Patroclus lifted his head, bringing their lips together in a tender kiss. The world lit up once more.
“I know, love. Thank you, and know that I shall always be there for you in turn. I love you Achilles, more than I can say.”
“I love you too, with every part of me.”
Patroclus cannot change what has transpired, long ago he accepted that his troubled past has made him who he is. For better or for worse. All he could do now is take those shattered pieces and use them to build a better future. Starting over is never easy, but it is not too late. It is never too late. He had forever ahead of him and Patroclus would use every last second of it. Filling each moment with the abundance of love he has been blessed with. Patroclus will continue to carry his troubled memories, but he will never, ever allow them to interfere with the peace that was long overdue.
Patroclus held pain, held scars from mended wounds, but he also held joy, he held times of laughter and comfort and celebration. He held love.
And he deserved love.