Work Text:
Author’s Statement
The choice to use second person narration is only a stylistic preference. I am treating this as research-based fanfiction, so it probably reads that way, and I feel like I should probably apologize. I chose to take on Patroclus’ perspective on Achilles and their relationship because the Iliad obviously places the focus on Achilles’ point of view. For the scene and setting I took inspiration from the art piece from 500 B.C.E of Achilles bandaging a wound on Patroclus (Figure 1 at the end of the document). I think the art piece shows a degree of tenderness and intimacy that the pair have, whether or not they are lovers, or their relationship is sexual in nature, of which either side can be extensively argued.
“Thank you,” you say quietly, biting the inside of your cheek until you draw blood to keep from audibly wincing.
Cross-legged, you sit across from Achilles in the slim space between your beds.[1] His touch is gentle, holding you steady as he wraps cloth around your bleeding arm. It stains your armour, your skin, but blood is nothing new.[2] You can smell it, thick and coppery, and it leaves an acrid taste in your mouth.
You can see the tick in his jaw—he’s not happy. He’s not looking at you, resolutely refusing to look anywhere except where his hands work, movements a little desperate, a little shaky.
“I’m fine,” you try, to see if that would rouse him from his thoughts. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t anything major.”
“It was stupid,” he bites, tucking the end of the cloth underneath to hold it secure. “What do you think would have happened if I wasn’t there?”
You scoff. “I would have lived. Figured it out myself. I’m not helpless, Achilles.”
He sits back onto his heels, hands clenched into fists on his thighs. “That doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head. “It was stupid, and you shouldn’t have done it. I’m not always going to be able to protect you—save you.”[3]
“I can do my own saving.” Your weak protest falls onto deaf ears. He’s made up his mind, and there’s not really anything anyone can do to change it. In this instance, not even you.
Most times, you can think of his stubborn nature fondly, because you know that he only has the best intentions. This time it just irritates you. His anger is palpable, suffocating you in this small room that he had insisted you share.[4]
“And the one time you can’t?” Achilles finally meets your eyes. His voice sounds just about devastated at the thought. “If I’m not there, then…”
Sometimes you wonder if everything he feels is ten times more intense than someone else. Every single emotion that touches him seems to bring him to his knees, overwhelming and all-consuming. His anger, most of all, but also the softer emotions, such as bliss, excitement. Love.
You place a hand over his fist, coaxing it open until you’re palm-to-palm. You watch the fight leave him, shoulders dropping, head lowering.
“I’m not that easy to get rid of,” you say, lips twitching. He looks at you, through his lashes, with an unreadable expression.
“You don’t know what you mean to me. What you’ve always meant to me,” he says, a little cryptically, but mostly soft. Tender.
You think you do. Circumstance had brought the pair of you together, and at first it was that core, fundamental human need to seek bonds that kept you together, but eventually, it was a choice, continuously, day after day. The desire to find and forge and maintain a connection with someone else. It props you up in the face of competition, of the unfairness of life.
You want him to know what cannot be spoken.
“I’d never forgive myself if anything were to happen to you,” he continues. Carefully, he leans forward until his forehead rests on your shoulder, a comforting and familiar weight. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“I know,” you say, and even if it’s not spoken you both can hear me too. Your cheek presses against his temple, and you raise a hand to gentle press it on the nape of his neck.
Sorrow rolls off Achilles in waves. You wish you were in his head, hearing his thoughts. You’d know what to say, then. You’d know how to calm his worries.
“Do you…” he starts, voice faltering, breath finding the gaps in your armour and skirting across your skin. “Do you think we’ll die? Fighting this war?”
And isn’t that just the most frightened he’s ever sounded in all your years of knowing him.[5]
“I don’t know,” is all you can manage. Your voice is small, perhaps just as frightened, perhaps more. The idea of losing Achilles is gut-wrenching, the worst pain imaginable.
“Patroclus… if you die, there’s no point in me living,” he tells you, full of conviction.
You don’t know what to say to that, what you should say. His body trembles under the weight of his thoughts, his emotions. He shakes almost like a leaf. You squeeze your hand slightly against his nape, pressing him closer. He lets you, pulls his hands up to hold you.
“I won’t let you fight alone. You know that, right?” you ask him. He puts the weight of the world on his shoulders and tries to insist on carrying it alone. “The war is killing us, tearing us apart, but I’m not leaving you.”
“You’re safest by my side,” he says, “but…” he trails off.
You’re patient. Practically listening to the gears in his head turning as he reaches for the right words, you keep your hand on him, feeling the heat of his skin, the strength laying underneath.
Eventually he finds his voice. “Every time you go out there, every time you step into the fight, I see you getting closer to your death. I feel—I feel like I’m already losing you. Before it happens.” His voice cracks, raw like an open wound. “I know you’re capable,” he continues before you can say it yourself, knowing the words are on the tip of your tongue. “But I can’t stand the thought of watching you fall.”[6]
“You won’t,” you say, if only to try and ease his worries, and not because you’re also trying to convince yourself. You don’t know what the future holds, but you know that if you let him think about death, about yourdeath, it’ll ruin him. “I promise.”
Sliding your hands across his skin, you cup his face in your hands and press your forehead against his. And invulnerable, godlike Achilles shudders under your touch.
“I need you to fight with me,” you say. You can feel his breath on your face. “I need you.”
“I’ll fight with you, Patroclus,” Achilles says, voice steadier, a promise more than a plea. “But I’m not ready to lose you. Not now. Not ever.”
Appendix
Figure 1: Achilles binding Patroclus’ wound
Bibliography
Allen-Hornblower, Emily. “The Helpless Witness: Achilles, Patroclus, and the Portrayal of Vulnerability in the Iliad.” In From Agent to Spectator, 30:18–93. Berlin, Boston: De Gruyter, 2016.
Burgess, Jonathan. “Achilles’ Heel: The Death of Achilles in Ancient Myth.” Classical Antiquity 14, no. 2 (1995): 217–44.
Delbar, David, and K.R Moore. “Achilles and Patroclus Revisited (Again).” In The Routledge Companion to the Reception of Ancient Greek and Roman Gender and Sexuality, 1st ed., 22–40. Routledge, 2023.
[1] Il. 9.663-68 describes the sleeping arrangements in their hut.
[2] While erased in some adaptations of the Iliad (such as the book Song of Achilles), Patroclus is a renowned warrior (Delbar and Moore, 2023, pp. 30-31).
[3] This is proven true, as Patroclus dies alone. There is a witness looking on for every major heroic death, and whenever the life of a significant hero is threatened in the Iliad. There are no gods present, or a fellow hero or warrior who pities Patroclus’ death. No one acts. The poet positions both the narrator (who is the poet themselves) and the audience as the primary witnesses his death. Through various structural elements, word choices, and traditional formulas, the scene is presented in a way that makes the listener feel as if they are experiencing it from Achilles’ perspective. (Allen-Hornblower, 2016, pp. 19-21)
[4] As far as the original text, Achilles didn’t insist this. Creative choice, showing attachment and a desire for closeness. Aside from that, across other Homeric texts, couples typically sleep privately, without the presence of servants, children, guests, or other couples. This type-scene emphasizes the significance of the couple’s privacy, as they retreat from their guests to rest alone in the central part of their home. What stands out most is Patroclus’ presence, along with his concubine, which extends the type-scene three lines beyond its usual conclusion. The poet expands a conventional poetic structure to include Patroclus (and his concubine). This sleeping arrangement therefore seems to be a violation of the cultural norm of privacy for couples. (Delbar and Moore, 2023, pp. 29-30)
[5] There is no instance of Achilles being genuinely invulnerable in the Iliad and not just an incredibly skilled warrior—rather, it is a later addition. Burgess argues that this imperfect invulnerability (invulnerability except for one location) was caused by the late version of Achilles’ death, where he was ambushed in the temple of Thymbraean Apollo. (Burgess, 1995, p. 218)
[6] Fortunately, he doesn’t get to. Again, Patroclus dies alone.